THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


j 


nr 


GALA-DAYS 


GAIL     HAMILTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "COUNTRY  LIVING  AND  COUNTRY  THINKING." 


3-  1* 


BOS  TON 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS 
1865 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS, 
,  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY   PRESS* 

WELCH,    BIGELOW,    AND   COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


PS 


&I3 

\ 


^ 

CONTENTS 


GALA  DAYS 

A  CALL  TO  MY  COUNTRYWOMEN 

A  SPASM  OF  SENSE       .... 

CAMILLA'S  CONCERT 

CHEBI    ..'...-,. 
SIDE-GLANCES  AT  HARVARD  ULASS-DAY    . 

SUCCESS  IN  LIFE 

HAPPIEST  DAYS 


249 
265 
301 
33' 
35i 
3S9 
409 


GALA-DAYS. 

? 


GALA-DAYS. 


!NCE  there  was  a  great  noise  in  our 
house,  —  a  thumping  and  battering 
and  grating.  It  was  my  own  self 
dragging  my  big  trunk  down  from  the 
garret.  \  did  it  myself  because  I  wanted  it  done. 
If  I  had  said,  "  Halicarnassus,  will  you  fetch  my 
trunk  down  ? "  he  would  have  asked  me  what 
trunk  ?  and  what  did  I  want  of  it  ?  and  would  not 
the  other  one  be  better  ?  and  could  n't  I  wait  till 
after  dinner  ?  —  and  so  the  trunk  would  probably 
have  had  a  three-days  journey  from  garret  to 
basement.  Now  I  am  strong  in  the  wrists  and 
weak  in  the  temper ;  therefore  I  used  the  one  and 
spared  the  other,  and  got  the  trunk  down-stairs 
myself.  Halicarnassus  heard  the  uproar.  '  He 
must  have  been  deaf  not  to  hear  it ;  for  the  old 
ark  banged  and  bounced,  and  scraped  the  paint 
off  the  stairs,  and  pitched  head-foremost  into  the 
wall,  and  gouged  out  the  plastering,  and  dinted  the 


4  GALA-DAYS. 

mop-board,  and  was  the  most  stupid,  awkward, 
uncompromising,  unmanageable  thing  I  ever  got 
hold  of  in  my  life. 

By  the  time  I  had  zigzagged  it  into  the  back 
chamber,  Halicarnassus  loomed  up  the  back  stairs. 
I  stood  hot  and  panting,  with  the  inside  of  my  fin- 
gers tortured  into  burning  leather,  the  skin  rubbed 
off  three  knuckles,  and  a  bruise  on  the  back  of  my 
right  hand,  where  the  trunk  had  crushed  it  against 
a  sharp  edge  of  the  doorway. 

"  Now,  then  ?  "  said  Halicarnassus  interroga- 
tively. 

"  To  be  sure,"  I  replied  affirmatively. 

He  said  no  more,  but  went  and  looked  up  the 
garret-stairs.  They  bore  traces  of  a  severe  en- 
counter, that  must  be  confessed. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  give  you  a  bit  of  advice  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  No !  "  I  answered  promptly. 

"Well,  then,  here  it  is.  The  next  time  you 
design  to  bring  a  trunk  down-stairs,  you  would 
better  cut  away  the  underpinning,  and  knock  out 
the  beams,  and  let  the  garret  down  into  the  cellar. 
It  will  make  less  uproar,  and  not  take  so  much  to 
repair  damages." 

He  intended  to  be  severe.  His  words  passed 
by  me  as  the  idle  wind.  I  perched  on  my  trunk, 
took  a  pasteboard  box-cover  and  fanned  myself.  I 
was  very  warm.  Halicarnassus  sat  down  on  the 
lowest  stair  and  remained  silent  several  minutes, 


GALA-DAYS.  5 

expecting  a  meek  explanation,  but  not  getting  it, 
swallowed  a  bountiful  piece  of  what  is  called  in 
homely  talk,  "  humble-pie,"  and  said,  — 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what 's  in  the  wind 
now." 

I  make  it  a  principle  always  to  resent  an  insult 
and  to  welcome  repentance  with  equal  alacrity. 
If  people  thrust  out  their  horns  at  me  wantonly, 
they  very  soon  run  against  a  stone-wall ;  but  the 
moment  they  show  signs  of  contrition,  I  soften. 
It  is  the  best  way.  Don't  insist  that  people  shall 
grovel  at  your  feet  before  you  accept  their  apology. 
That  is  not  magnanimous.  Let  mercy  temper 
justice.  It  is  a  hard  thing  at  best  for  human 
nature  to  go  down  into  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  ; 
and  although,  when  circumstances  arise  which 
make  it  the  only  fit  place  for  a  person,  I  insist 
upon  his  going,  still  no  sooner  does  he  actually 
begin  the  descent  than  my  sense  of  justice  is 
appeased,  my  natural  sweetness  of  disposition  re- 
sumes sway,  and  I  trip  along  by  his  side  chatting 
as  gayly  as>  if  I  did  not  perceive  it  was  the  Valley 
of  Humiliation  at  all,  but  fancied  it  the  Delectable 
Mountains.  So,  upon  the  first  symptoms  of  placa- 
bility, I  answered  cordially,  — 

"  Halicarnassus,  it  has  been  the  ambition  of  my 
life  to  write  #  book  of  travels.  But  to  write  a 
book  of  travels,  one  must  first  have  travelled." 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  responded.  "  With  an  atlas 
and  an  encyclopaedia  one  can  travel  around  the 
world  in  his  arm-chair." 


6  GALA-DA  VS. 

"  But  one  cannot  have  personal  adventures,"  I 
said.  "You  can,  indeed,  sit  in  your  arm-chair 
and  describe  the  crater  of  Vesuvius ;  but  you  can- 
not tumble  into  the  crater  of  Vesuvius  from  your 
arm-chair." 

"  I  have  never  heard  that  it  was  necessary  to 
tumble  in,  in  order  to  have  a  good  view  of  the 
mountain." 

"  But  it  is  necessary  to  do  it,  if  one  would  make 
a  readable  book." 

"Then  I  should  let  the  book  slide,  —  rather 
than  slide  myself."  '  , 

"  If  you  would  do  me  the  honor  to  listen,"  I 
said,  scornful  of  his  paltry  attempt  at  wit,  "  you 
would  see  that  the  book  is  the  object  of  my  travel- 
ling. I  travel  to  write.  I  do  not  write  because  I 
have  travelled.'  I  am  not  going  to  subordinate 
my  book  to  my  adventures.  My  adventures  are 
going  to  be  arranged  beforehand  with  a  view  to 
my  book." 

"  A  most  original  way  of  getting  up  a  book  !" 

""Not  in  the  least.  It  is  the  most  common 
thing  in  the  world.  Look  at  our  dear  British 
cousins." 

"  And  see  them  make  guys  of  themselves. 
They  visit  a  magnificent  country  that  is  trying  the 
experiment  of  the  world,  and  write  about  their 
shaving-soap  and  their  babies'  nurses." 

"  Just  where  they  are  right.  Just  why  I  like 
the  race,  from  Trollope  down.  They  give  you 


GALA-DAYS.  7 

something  to  take  hold  of.  I  tell  you,  Halicarnas- 
sus,  it  is  the  personality  of  the  writer,  and  not  the 
nature  of  the  scenery  or  of  the  institutions,  that 
makes  the  interest.  It  stands  to  reason.  If  it 
were  not  so,  one  book  would  be  all  that  ever  need 
be  written,  and  that  book  would  be  a  census 
report.  For  a  republic  is  a  republic,  and  Niagara 
is  Niagara  forever ;  but  tell  how  you  stood  on  the 
chain-bridge  at  Niagara  —  if  there  is  one  there  — 
and  bought  a  cake  of  shaving-soap  from  a  tribe  of 
Indians  at  a  fabulous  price,  or  how  your  baby 
""jumped  from  the  arms  of  the  careless  nurse  into 
the  Falls,  and  immediately  your  own  individuality 
is  thrown  around  the  scenery,  and  it  acquires  a 
human  interest.  It  is  always  five  miles  from  one 
place  to  another,  but  that  is  mere  almanac  and 
statistics.  Let  a  poet  walk  the  five  miles,  and 
narrate  his  experience  with  birds  and  bees  and 
flowers  and  grasses  and  water  and  sky,  and  it 
becomes  literature.  And  let  me  tell  you  further, 
sir,  a  book  of  travels  is  just  as  interesting  as  the 
person  who  writes  it  is  interesting.  It  is  not  the 
countries,  but  the  persons,  that  are  '  shown  up.' 
You  go  to  France  and  write  a  dull  book.  I  go  to 
France  and  write  a  lively  book.  But  France  is 
the  same.  The  difference  is  in  ourselves." 

Halicarnassus  glowered  at  me.  I  think  I  am 
not  using  strained  or  extravagant  language  when 
I  say  that  he  glowered  at  me.  Then  he  growled 
out,  — 


8  GALA-DAYS. 

"  So  your  book  of  travels  is  just  to  put  yourself 
into  pickle." 

"  Say,  rather,"  I  answered,  with  sweet  humility, 
• — "  say,  rather,  it  is  to  shrine  myself  in  amber. 
As  the  insignificant  fly,  encompassed  with  molten 
glory,  passes  into  a  crystallized  immortality,  his 
own  littleness  uplifted  into  loveliness  by  the  beauty 
m  which  he  is  imprisoned,  so  I,  wrapped  around 
by  the  glory  of  my  land,  may  find  myself  niched 
into  a  fame  which  my  unattended  and  naked  merit 
could  never  have  claimed." 

Halicarnassus  was  a  little  stunned,  but  pres- 
ently recovering  himself,  suggested  that  I  had 
travelled  enough  already  to  make  out  a  quite 
sizable  book. 

"  Travelled  !  "  I  said,  looking  him  steadily  in 
the  face,  —  "  travelled !  I  went  once  up  to  Tudiz 
huckleberrying  ;  and  once,  when  there  was  a 
freshet,  you  took  a  superannuated  broom  and 
paddled  me  around  the  orchard  in  a  leaky  pig's- 
trough  ! " 

He  could  not  deny  it ;  so  he  laughed,  and 
said,  — 

"  Ah,  well !  —  ah,  well !  Suit  yourself.  Take 
your  trunk  and  pitch  into  Vesuvius,  if  you  like. 
I  won't  stand  in  your  way." 

His  acquiescence  was  ungraciously,  and  I  be- 
lieve I  may  say  ambiguously,  expressed  ;  but  it 
mattered  little,  for  I  gathered  up  my  goods  and 
chattels,  strapped  them  into  my  trunk,  and  waited 


GALA-DAYS.  9 

for  the  summer  to  send  us  on  our  way  rejoicing, 
—  the  gentle  and  gracious  young 'summer,  that 
had  come  by  the  calendar,  but  had  lost  her  way 
on  the  thermometer.  O  these  delaying  Springs, 
that  mock  the  merry-making  of  ancestral  Eng- 
land !  Is  the  world  grown  so  old  and  stricken 
in  years,  that,  like  King  David,  it  gets  no  heat  ? 
Why  loiters,  where  lingers,  the  beautiful,  balm- 
breathing  June  ?  Rosebuds  are  bound  in  her 
trailing  hair,  and  the  sweep  of  her  garments 
always  used  to  waft  a  scented  gale  over  the  hap- 
py hills. 

"  Here  she  was  wont  to  go !  and  here !  and  here ! 
Just  where  the  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow; 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 
Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk ! 
But  like  the  soft  west-wind  she  shot  along; 
And  where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 
As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot." 

So  sang  a  rough-handed,  silver-voiced,  sturdy 
old  fellow,  harping  unconsciously  the  notes  of  my 
lament,  and  the  tones  of  his  sorrow  wail  through 
the  green  boughs  to-day,  though  he  has  been 
lying  now  these  two  hundred  years  in  England's 
Sleeping  Palace,  among  silent  kings  and  queens. 
Fair  and  fresh  and  always  young  is  my  lost 
maiden,  and  "  beautiful  exceedingly."  Her  habit 
was  to  wreathe  her  garland  with  the  May,  and 
everywhere  she  found  most  hearty  welcome ; 
but  May  has  come  and  gone,  and  June  is  still 
missing.  I  look  longingly  afar,  but  there  is  no 


10  GALA-DA  YS. 

flutter  of  her  gossamer  robes  over  the  distant  hills. 
No  white  cloud  floats  down  the  blue  heavens,  a 
chariot  of  state,  bringing  her  royally  from  the 
court  of  the  King.  The  earth  is  mourning  her 
absence.  A  blight  has  fallen  upon  the  roses,  and 
the  leaves  are  gone  gray  and  mottled.  The  buds 
started  up  to  meet  and  greet  their  queen,  but  her 
golden  sceptre  was  not  held  forth,  and  they  are 
faint  and  stunned  with  terror.  The  censer  which 
they  would  have  swung  on  the  breezes,  to  gladden 
her  heart,  is  hidden  away  out  of  sight,  and  their 
own  hearts  are  smothered  with  the  incense.  The 
beans  and  the  peas  and  the  tasselled  corn  are 
struck  with  surprise,  as  if  an  eclipse  had  staggered 
them,  and  are  waiting  to  see  what  will  turn  up, 
determined  it  shall  not  be  themselves,  unless  some- 
thing happens  pretty  soon.  The  tomatoes  are 
thinking,  with  homesick  regret,  of  the  smiling 
Italian  gardens,  where  the  sun  ripened  them  to 
mellow  beauty,  with  many  a  bold  caress,  and 
they  hug  their  ruddy  fruit  to  their  own  bosoms, 
and  Frost,  the  cormorant,  will  grab  it  all,  since 
June  disdains  the  proffered  gift,  and  will  not  touch 
them  with  her  tender  lips.  The  money-plants 
are  growing  pale,  and  biting  off  their  finger-tips 
with  impatience.  The  marigold  whispers  his 
suspicion  over  to  the  balsam-buds,  and  neither 
ventures  to  make  a  move,  quite  sure  there  is 
something  wrong.  The  scarlet  tassel-flower  ut- 
terly refuses  to  unfold  his  brave  plumes.  The 


GALA-DAYS.  11 

Zinnias  look  up  a  moment,  shuddering  with  cold 
chills,  conclude  there  is  no  good  in  hurrying,  and 
then  just  pull  their  brown  blankets  around  them, 
turn  over  in  their  beds,  and  go  to  sleep  again. 
The  morning-glories  rub  their  eyes,  and  are  but 
half  awake,  for  all  their  royal  name.  The  Can- 
terbury-bells may  be  chiming  velvet  peals  down 
in  their  dark  cathedrals,  but  no  clash  nor  clangor 
nor  faintest  echo  ripples  up  into  my  Garden 
World.  Not  a  bee  drones  his  drowsy  song  among 
the  flowers,  for  there  are  no  flowers  there.  One 
venturesome  little  phlox  dared  the  cold  winds,  and 
popped  up  his  audacious  head,  but  his  pale,  puny 
face  shows  how  near  he  is  to  being  frozen  to 
death.  The  poor  birds  are  shivering  in  their 
nests.  They  sing  a  little,  just  to  keep  up  their 
spirits,  and  hop  about  to  preserve  their  circula- 
tion, and  capture  a  bewildered  bug  or  two,  but 
I  don't  believe  there  is  an  egg  anywhere  round. 
Not  only  the  owl,  but  the  red-breast,  and  the 
oriole,  and  the  blue-jay,  for  all  his  feathers,  is 
a-cold.  Nothing  flourishes  but  witch-grass  and 
canker-worms.  Where  is  June  ?  —  the  bright 
and  beautiful,  the  warm  and  clear  and  balm- 
breathing  June,  with  her  matchless,  deep,  intense 
sky,  and  her  sunshine,  that  cleaves  into  your 
heart,  and  breaks  up  all  the  winter  there  ?  What 
are  these  sleety  fogs  about  ?  Go  back  into  the 
January  thaw,  where  you  belong!  What  have 
the  chill  rains,  and  the  raw  winds,  and  the  dismal, 


12  GALA-DAYS. 

leaden  clouds,  and  all  these  flannels  and  furs  to 
do  with  June,  —  the  perfect  June  of  hope  and 
beauty  and  utter  joy  ?  Where  is  the  June  ? 
Has  she  lost  her  way  among  the  narrow,  inter- 
minable defiles  of  your  crooked  old  city  streets  ? 
Go  out  and  find  her!  You  do  not  want  her 
there.  No  blade  nor  blossom  will  spring  from 
your  dingy  brick,  nor  your  dull,  dead  stone, 
though  you  prison  her  there  for  a  thousand  years 
of  wandering.  Take  her  by  the  hand  tenderly, 
and  bid  her  forth  into  the  waiting  country,  which 
will  give  her  a  queenly  reception,  and  laurels 
worth  the  wearing.  Have  you  fallen  in  love  with 
her  on  the  Potomac,  O  soldiers  ?  Are  you  woo- 
ing her  with  honeyed  words  on  the  bloody  soil  of 
Virginia  ?  Is  she  tranced  by  your  glittering 
sword-shine  in  ransomed  Tennessee?  Is  she 
floating  on  a  lotus-leaf  in  Florida  lagoons  ?  Has 
she  drunk  Nepenthe  in  the  orange-groves  ?  Is 
she  chasing  golden  apples  under  the  magnolias  ? 
Are  you  toying  with  the  tangles  of  her  hair  in 
the  bright  sea-foam  ?  O,  rouse  her  from  her 
trance,  loose  the  fetters  from  her  lovely  limbs, 
and  speed  her  to  our  Northern  skies,  that  moan 
her  long  delay. 

Or  is  she  frightened  by  the  thunders  of  the 
cannonade  sounding  from  shore  to  shore,  and 
wakening  the  wild  echoes  ?  Does  she  fear  to 
breast  our  bristling  bayonets?  Is  she  stifled  by 
the  smoke  of  powder  ?  Is  she  crouching  down 


GALA-DA  YS.  13 

by  the  Caribbean  shores,  terror-stricken  and  pal- 
lid ?  Sweet  June,  -fear  not !  The  flash  of  loyal 
steel  will  only  light  you  along  your  Northern  road. 
Beauty  and  innocence  have  nothing  to  dread 
from  the  sword  a  patriot  wields.  The  storm  that 
rends  the  heavens  will  make  earth  doubly  fair. 
Your  pathway  shall  lie  over  Delectable  Mountains, 
and  through  vinelands  of  Beulah.  Come  quickly, 
tread  softly,  and  from  your  bountiful  bosom  scat- 
ter seeds  as  you  come,  that  daisies  and  violets 
may  softly  shine,  and  sweetly  twine  with  the 
amaranth  and  immortelle  that  spring  already  from 
heroes'  hearts  buried  in  soldiers'  graves. 

"  But  there  is  no  use  in  placarding  her,"  said 
Halicarnassus.  "We  shall  have  no  warm  weather 
till  the  eclipse  is  over." 

"  So  ho  !  "  I  said.  "  Having  exhausted  every 
other  pretext  for  delay,  you  bring  out  an  eclipse  ! 
and  pray  when  is  this  famous  affair  to  come  off?  " 

"  To-morrow  if  the  weather  prove  favorable,  if 
not,  on  the  first  fair  night." 

Then  indeed  I  set  my  house  in  order.  Here 
was  something  definite  and  trustworthy.  First  an 
eclipse,  then  a  book,  and  yet  I  pitied  the  moon 
us  I  walked  home  that  night.  She  came  up  the 
heavens  so  round  and  radiant,  so  glorious  in  her 
majesty,  so  confident  in  her  strength,  so  sure  of 
a  triumphal  march  across  the  shining  sky ;  not 
knowing  that  a  great  black  shadow  loomed  right 
athwart  her  path  to  swallow  her  up.  She  never 


14  GALA-DAYS. 

dreamed  that  all  her  royal  beauty  should  pass  be- 
hind a  pall,  that  all  her  glory  should  be  demeaned 
by  pitiless  eclipse,  and  her  dome  of  delight  become 
the  valley  of  humiliation  !  Is  there  no  help  ?  I 
said.  Can  no  hand  lead  her  gently  another  way  ? 
Can  no  voice  warn  her  of  the  black  shadow  that 
lies  in  ambuscade  ?  None.  Just  as  the  young 
girl  leaves  her  tender  home,  and  goes  fearless  to 
her  future,  —  to  the  future  which  brings  sadness 
for  her  smiling,  and  patience  for  her  hope,  and 
pain  for  her  bloom,  and  the  cold  requital  of  kind- 
ness, or  the  unrequital  of  coldness  for  her  warmth 
of  love,  so  goes  the  moon,  unconscious  and  serene, 
to  meet  her  fate.  But  at  least  I  will  watch  with 
her.  Trundle  up  to  the  window  here,  old  lounge ! 
you  are  almost  as  good  as  a  grandmother.  Steady 
there  !  broken-legged  table.  You  have  gone  limp- 
ing ever  since  I  knew  you  ;  don't  fail  me  to-night. 
Shine  softly,  Kerosena,  next  of  kin  to  the  sun, 
true  monarch  of  mundane  lights  !  calmly  superior 
to  the  flickering  of  all  the  fluids,  and  the  ghastli- 
ness  of  all  the  gases,  though  it  must  be  confessed 
you  don't  hold  out  half  as  long  as  you  used  when 
first  your  yellow  banner  was  unfurled.  Shine 
softly  to-night,  and  light  my  happy  feet  through 
the  Walden  woods,  along  the  Walden  shores, 
where  a  philosopher  sits  in  solitary  state.  He  shall 
keep  me  awake  by  the  Walden  shore  till  the  moon 
and  the  shadow  meet.  How  tranquil  sits  the 
philosopher,  how  grandly  rings  the  man  !  Here, 


GALA-DA  YS.  15 

in  his  homespun  house,  the  squirrels  click  under 
his  feet,  the  woodchucks  devour  his  beans,  and  the 
loon  laughs  on  the  lake.  Here  rich  men  come, 
and  cannot  hide  their  lankness  and  their  poverty. 
Here  poor  men  come,  and  their  gold  shines 
through  their  rags.  Hither  comes  the  poet,  and 
the  house  is  too  narrow  for  their  thoughts,  and  the 
rough  walls  ring  with  lusty  laughter.  O  happy 
"VValden  wood  and  woodland  lake,  did  you  thrill 
through  all  your  luminous  aisles  and  all  your 
listening  shores  for  the  man  that  wandered  there  ? 
Is  it  begun  ?  Not  yet.  The  kitchen  clock  has 
but  just  struck  eleven,  and  my  watch  lacks  ten 
minutes  of  that.  What  if  the  astronomers  made 
a  mistake  in  their  calculations,  and  the  almanacs 
are  wrong,  and  the  eclipse  shall  not  come  off? 
Would  it  be  strange  ?  Would  it  not  be  stranger 
if  it  were  not  so  ?  How  can  a  being,  standing  on 
one  little  ball,  spinning  forever  around  and  around 
among  millions  of  other  balls  larger  and  smaller, 
whirling  breathlessly  the  same  endless  waltz,  — 
how  can  he  trace  out  their  paths,  and  foretell  their 
conjunctions  ?  How  can  a  puny  creature  fastened 
down  to  one  world,  able  to  lift  himself  but  a  few 
paltry  feet  above,  to  dig  but  a  few  paltry  feet 
below  its  surface,  utterly  unable  to  divine  what 
shall  happen  to  himself  in  the  next  moment,  — 
how  can  he  thrust  out  his  hand  into  inconceivable 
space,  and  anticipate  the  silent  future  ?  How  can 
his  feeble  eye  detect  the  quiver  of  a  world  ?  How 


16  GALA-DAYS. 

can  his  slender  strength  weigh  the  mountains  in 
scales,  and  the  hills  in  a  balance  ?  And  yet  it  is. 
Wonderful  is  the  Power  that  framed  all  these 
spheres,  and  sent  them  on  their  great  errands  ;  but 
more  wonderful  still  the  Power  that  gave  to  finite 
mind  its  power,  to  stand  on  one  little  point,  and 
sweep  the  whole  circle  of  the  skies.  Almost  as 
marvellous  is  it  that  man,  being  man,  can  divine 
the  universe,  as  that  God,  being  God,  could  devise 
it.  Cycles  of  years  go  by.  Suns  and  moons  and 
stars  tread  their  mysterious  rounds,  but  steady 
eyes  are  following  them  into  the  awful  distances, 
steady  hands  are  marking  their  eternal  courses. 
Their  multiplied  motions  shall  yet  be  resolved  into 
harmony,  and  so  the  music  of  the  spheres  shall 
chime  with  the  angels'  song,  "  Glory  to  God  in 
the  highest !  " 

Is  it  begun  ?     Not  yet. 

No  wonder  that  eclipses  were  a  terror  to  men 
before  Science  came  queening  it  through  the  uni- 
verse, compelling  all  these  fearful  sights  and  great 
signs  into  her  triumphal  train,  and  commanding 
us  to  be  no  longer  afraid  of  our  own  shadow. 
The  sure  and  steadfast  Moon,  shuddering  from  the 
fulness  of  her  splendor  into  wild  and  ghostly 
darkness,  might  well  wake  strange  apprehensions 
She  is  reeling  in  convulsive  agony.  She  is  sick- 
ening and  swooning  in  the  death-struggle.  The 
principalities  and  powers  of  darkness,  the  eternal 
foes  of  men,  are  working  their  baleful  spell  with 


GALA-DAYS.  17 

terrible  success  to  cast  the  sweet  Moon  from  her 
beautiful  path,  and  force  her  to  work  woe  and 
disaster  upon  the  earth.  Some  fell  monster, 
roaming  through  the  heavens,  seeking  whom  he 
may  devour,  —  some  dragon,  "  monstrous,  horri- 
ble, and  vaste,"  whom  no  Redcrosse  Knight  shall 
pierce  with  his  trenchand  blade,  is  swallowing 
with  giant  gulps  the  writhing  victim.  Blow  shrill 
and  loud  your  bugle  blasts !  Beat  with  fierce 
clangor  your  brazen  cymbals !  Push  up  wild 
shrieks,  and  groans,  and  horrid  cries, 

"  That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echoes  ring," 

and  the  foul  fiend  perchance  be  scared  away  by 
deafening  din. 

O,  sad  for  those  who  lived  before  the  ghouls 
were  disinherited ;  for  whom  the  woods  and  wa- 
ters, and  the  deep  places,  were  peopled  with 
mighty,  mysterious  foes';  who  saw  evil  spirits  in 
the  earth  forces,  and  turned  her  gold  into  con- 
suming fire.  For  us,  later  born,  Science  has 
dived  into  the  caverns,  and  scaled  the  heights, 
and  fathomed  the  depths,  forcing  from  coy  yet 
willing  Nature  the  solution  of  her  own  problems, 
and  showing  us  everywhere,  GOD.  We  are  not 
the  children  of  fate,  trembling  at  the  frown  of 
fairies  and  witches  and  gnomes,  but  the  children 
of  our  Father.  If  we  ascend  up  into  heaven,  he 
is  there.  If  we  take  the  wings  of  the  morning, 
and  dwell  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea,  even 


18  GALA-DAYS. 

there    shall   his   hand   lead,    and   his   right   hand 
hold. 

Is  it  begun  ?  Not  —  well,  I  don't  know, 
though.  Something  seems  to  be  happening  up 
in  the  northwest  corner.  Certainly,  a  bit  of  that 
round  disk  has  been  shaved  off.  I  will  wait  five 
minutes.  Yes,  the  battle  is  begun.  The  shadow 
advances.  The  moon  yields.  But  there  are 
watchers  in  the  heaven  as  well  as  in  the  earth. 
There  is  sympathy  in  the  skies.  Up  floats  an 
argosy  of  compassionate  clouds,  and  fling  their 
fleecy  veil  around  the  pallid  moon,  and  bear  her 
softly  on  their  snowy  bosoms.  But  she  moves 
on,  impelled.  She  sweeps  beyond  the  sad  clouds. 
Deeper  and  deeper  into  the  darkness.  Closer 
and  closer  the  Shadow  clutches  her  in  his  inexor- 
able arms.  Wan  and  weird  becomes  her  face, 
wrathful  and  wild  the  astonished  winds  ;  and  for 
all  her  science  and  her  faith,  the  Earth  trembles 
in  the  night,  and  a  hush  of  awe  quivers  through 
the  angry,  agitated  air.  On,  still  on,  till  the  fair 
and  smiling  moon  is  but  a  dull  and  tawny  orb, 
with  no  beauty  to  be  desired ;  on,  still  on,  till 
even  that  cold,  coppery  light  wanes  into  sullen 
darkness.  Whether  it  is  a  cloud  kindly  hiding 
the  humbled  queen,  or  whether  the  queen  is  in- 
deed merged  in  the  abyss  of  the  Shadow,  I  cannot 
tell,  and  it  is  dismal  waiting  to  see.  The  wildness 
is  gone  with  the  moon,  and  there  is  nothing  left 
but  a  dark  night.  I  wonder  how  long  before  she 


GALA-DAYS.  19 

will  reappear  ?  Are  the  people  in  the  moon  star- 
ing through  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  ?  .  I  should  like 
to  see  her  come  out  again,  and  clothe  herself  in 
splendor.  I  think  I  will  go  back  to  Walden. 
Ah !  even  my  philosopher,  aping  Homer,  nods. 
It  shimmers  a  little,  on  the  lake,  among  the  moun- 
tains —  of  the  moon. 

I  declare !  I  believe  I  have  been  asleep. 
What  of  it?  It  is  just  as  well.  I  have  no 
doubt  the  moon  will  come  out  again  all  right,  — 
which  is  more  than  I  shall  do  if  I  go  on  in  this 
way.  I  feel  already  as  if  the  top  of  my  head 
was  coming  off.  Once  I  was  very  unhappy,  and 
I  sat  up  all  night  to  make  the  most  of  it.  It  was 
many  hundred  years  ago,  when  I  was  younger 
than  I  am  now,  and  did  not  know  that  misery 
was  not  a  thing  to  be  caressed  and  cosseted  and 
coddled,  but  a  thing  to  be  taken,  neck  and  heels, 
and  turned  out  doors.  So  I  sat  up  to  revel  in 
the  ecstasy  of  woe.  I  went  along  swimmingly 
into  the  little  hours,  but  by  two  o'clock  there  was 
a  great  sameness  about  it,  and  I  grew  desperately 
sleepy.  I  was  not  going  to  give  it  up,  however, 
so  I  shocked  myself  into  a  torpid  animation  with 
a  cold  bath,  it  being  mid-winter,  and  betwixt  bath 
and  bathos,  managed  to  keep  agoing  till  daylight. 
Once  since  then  I  was  very  happy,  and  could  not 
keep  my  eyes  shut.  Those  are  the  only  two 
times  I  ever  sat  up  all  night,  and,  on  the  whole,  I 
think  I  will  go  to  bed  ;  wherefore,  O  people  on 


20  GALA-DA  YS. 

the  earth,  marking  eagerly  the  moon's  eclipse, 
and  O  people  on  the  moon,  crowding  your  craggy 
hills  to  see  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  Good  night ! 

Then  the  lost  June  came  back.  Frost  melted 
out  of  the  air,  summer '  melted  in,  and  my  book 
beckoned  me  onward  with  a  commanding  gesture. 
Consequently  I  took  my  trunk,  Halicarnassus  his 
cane,  and  we  started  on  our  travels.  But  the 
shadow  of  the  eclipse  hung  over  us  still.  An 
evil  omen  came  in  the  beginning.  Just  as  I  was 
stepping  into  the  car,  I  observed  a  violent  smoke 
issuing  from  under  it.  I  started  back  in  alarm. 

"  They  are  only  getting  up  steam,"  said  Hali- 
carnassus. "  Always  do,  when  they  start." 

"  I  know  better !  "  I  answered  briskly,  for  there 
was  no  time  to  be  circumlocutional.  "  They  don't 
get  up  steam  under  the  cars." 

"  Why  not  ?  Bet  a  sixpence  you  could  n't  get 
Uncle  Cain's  Dobbin  out  of  his  jog-trot  without 
building  a  fire  under  him." 

"  I  know  that  wheel  is  on  fire,"  I  said,  not  to  be 
turned  from  the  direct  and  certain  line  of  assertion 
into  the  winding  ways  of  argument. 

"  No  matter,"  replied  Halicarnassus,  conceding 
everything,  "  we  are  insured." 

Upon  the  strength  of  which  consolatory  informa- 
tion I  went  in.  By  and  by  a  man  entered  and 
took  a  seat  in  front  of  us.  "  The  box  is  all  afire," 
chuckled  he  to  his  neighbor,  as  if  it  were  a  fine 
joke.  By  and  by  several  people  who  had  been 


GALA-DA  YS.  21 

looking  out  of  the  windows  drew  in  their  heads, 
rose,  and  went  into  the  next  car. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  they  did  that  for  ? "  I 
asked  Halicarnassus. 

"  More  aristocratical.  Belong  to  old  families. 
This  is  a  new  car,  don't  you  see  ?  We  are  par- 
venus." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  rejoined.  "  This  car 
is  on  fire,  and  they  have  gone  into  the  next  one  so 
as  not  to  be  burned  up." 

"  They  are  •  not  going  to  write  books,  and  can 
afford  to  run  away  from  adventures." 

"  But  suppose  I  am  burned  up  in  my  adven- 
ture ?  " 

"  Obviously,  then,  your  book  will  end  in  smoke." 

I  ceased  to  talk,  for  I  was  provoked  at  his  indif- 
ference. I  leave  every  impartial  mind  to  judge 
for  itself  whether  the  circumstances  were  such  as 
to  warrant  composure.  To  be  sure,  somebody 
said  the  car  was  to  be  left  at  Jeru  ;  but  Jeru  was 
eight  miles  away,  and  any  quantity  of  mischief 
might  be  done  before  we  reached  it,  —  if  indeed 
we  were  not  prevented  from  reaching  it  altogether. 
It  was  a  mere  question  of  dynamics.  Would  dry 
wood  be  able  to  hold  its  own  against  a  raging  fire 
for  half  an  hour  ?  Of  course  the  conductor 
thought  it  would ;  but  even  conductors  are  not 
infallible ;  and  you  may  imagine  how  comfortable 
it  was  to  sit  and  know  that  a  fire  was  in  full  blast 
beneath  you,  and  to  look  down  every  few  minutes 


22  GALA-DA  YS. 

expecting  to  see  the  flames  forking  up  under  your 
feet.  I  confess  I  was  not  without  something  like 
a  hope  that  one  tongue  of  the  devouring  element 
would  flare  up  far  enough  to  give  Halicarnassus  a 
start ;  but  it  did  not.  No  casualty  occurred.  We 
reached  Jeru  in  safety  ;  but  that  does  not  prove 
that  there  was  no  danger,  or  that  indifference  was 
anything  but  the  most  foolish  hardihood.  If  our 
burning  car  had  been  in  mid-ocean,  serenity  would 
have  been  sublimity,  but  to  stay  in  the  midst  of 
peril  when  two  steps  would  take  one  out  of  it  is 
idiocy.  And  that  there  was  peril  is  conclusively 
shown  by  the  fact  that  the  very  next  day  the 
Eastern  Railroad  Depot  took  fire  and  was  burned 
to  the  ground.  I  havejn  my  own  mind  no  doubt 
that  it  was  a  continuation  of  the  same  fire,  and  if 
we  had  stayed  in  the  car  much  longer,  we  should 
have  shared  the  same  fate.  , 

We  found  Jeru  to  be  a  pleasant  city,  with  only 
one  fault:  the  inhabitants  will  crowd  into  a  car 
before  passengers  can  get  out ;  consequently  the 
heads  of  the  two  columns  collide  near  the  car- 
door,  and  there  is  a  general  choke.  Otherwise 
Jeru  is  a  delightful  city.  It  is  famous  for  its  beau- 
tiful women.  Its  railroad-station  is  a  magnificent 
piece  of  architecture.  Its  men  are  retired  East- 
India  merchants.  Everybody  in  Jeru  is  rich  and 
has  real  estate.  The  houses  in  Jeru  are  three 
stories  high  and  face  on  the  Common.  People  in 
Jeru  are  well-dressed  and  well-bred,  and  they  all 
came  over  in  the  Mayflower. 


GALA-DA  YS.  23 

We  stopped  in  Jeru  five  minutes. 

When  we  were  ready  to  continue  our  travels, 
Halicarnassus  seceded  into  the  smoking-car,  and 
while  the  engine  was  shrieking  off  its  inertia,  a 
small  boy,  laboring  under  great  agitation,  hurried 
in,  darted  up  to  me,  and,  thrusting  a  pinchbeck 
ring  with  a  pink  glass  in  it  into  my  face,  exclaimed, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper,  — 

"  A  beautiful  ring,  ma'am !  I  Ve  just  picked  it 
up.  Can't  stop  to  find  the  owner.  Worth  a  dol- 
lar, ma'am;  but  if  you'll  give  me  fifty  cents  —  " 

"  Boy !  " 

I  rose  fiercely,  convulsively,  in  my  seat,  drew 
one  long  breath,  but  whether  he  thought  I  was 
going  to  kill  him,  —  I  dare  say  I  looked  it,  —  or 
whether  he  saw  a  sheriff  behind,  or  a  phantom  gal- 
lows before,  I  know  not ;  but  without  waiting  for 
the  thunderbolt  to  strike,  he  rushed  from  the  car 
as  precipitately  as  he  had  rushed  in.  I  was  angry, 
—  not  because  I  was  to  have  been  cheated,  for  I 
have  been  repeatedly  and  atrociously  cheated  and 
only  smiled,  but  because  the  rascal  dared  attempt 
on  me  such  a  threadbare,  ragged,  shoddy  trick  as 
that.  Do  I  look  like  a  rough-hewn,  unseasoned 
backwoodsman  ?  Have  I  the  air  of  never  having 

o 

read  a  newspaper  ?  Is  there  a  patent  innocence  of 
eye-teeth  in  my  demeanor?  O  Jeru!  Jeru!  Some- 
where in  your  virtuous  bosom  you  are  nourishing 
a  viper,  for  I  have  felt  his  fangs.  Woe  unto  you, 
if  you  do  not  strangle  him  before  he  develops  into 


24  GALA-DAYS. 

mature  anacondaism  !  In  point  of  natural  history 
I  am  not  sure  that  vipers  do  grow  up  anacondas, 
but  for  the  purposes  of  moral  philosophy  the  de- 
velopment theory  answers  perfectly  well. 

In  Boston  we  had  three  hours  to  spare ;  so  we 
sent  our  luggage  —  that  is,  my  trunk  —  to  the 
Worcester  Depot,  and  walked  leisurely  ourselves. 
I  had  a  little  shopping  to  do,  to  complete  my  outfit 
for  the  journey,  —  a  very  little  shopping,  —  only  a 
nightcap  or  two.  Ordinarily  such  a  thing  is  a 
matter  of  small  moment,  but  in  my  case  the 
subject  had  swollen  into  unnatural  dimensions. 
Nightcaps  are  not  generally  considered  healthy,  — 
at  least  not  by  physicians.  Nature  has  given  to 
the  head  its  sufficient  and  appropriate  covering, 
the  hair.  Anything  more  than  this  injures  the 
head,  by  confining  the  heat,  preventing  the  sooth- 
ing, cooling  contact  of  air,  and  so  deranging  the 
circulation  of  the  blood.  Therefore  I  have  always 
heeded  the  dictates  of  Nature,  which  I  have  sup- 
posed to  be  to  brush  out  the  hair  thoroughly  at 
night  and  let  it  fly.  But  there  are  serious  disad- 
vantages connected  with  this  course.  For  Nature 
will  be  sure  to  whisk  the  hair  away  from  your 
ears  where  you  want  it,  and  into  your  eyes  where 
you  don't  want  it,  besides  crowning  you  with  mag- 
nificent disorder  in  the  morning.  But  as  I  have 
always  believed  that  no  evil  exists  without  its 
remedy,  I  had  long  been  exercising  my  inventive 
genius  in  attempts  to  produce  a  head-gear  which 


GALA-DAYS.  25 

should  at  once  protect  the  ears,  confine  the  hair, 
and  let  the  skull  alone.  I  regret  to  say  that  my 
experiments  were  an  utter  failure,  notwithstand- 
ing the  amount  of  science  and  skill  brought  to  bear 
upon  them.  One  idea  lay  at  the  basis  of  all  my 
endeavors.  Every  combination,  however  elabo- 
rate or  intricate,  resolved  into  its  simplest  ele- 
ments, consisted  of  a  pair  of  rosettes  laterally  to 
keep  the  ears  warm,  a  bag  posteriorly  to  put  the 
hair  into,  and  some  kind  of  a  string  somewhere  to 
hold  the  machine  together.  Every  possible  shape 
into  which  lace  or  muslin  or  sheeting  could  be  cut 
or  plaited  or  sewed  or  twisted,  into  which  crewel 
or  cord  could  be  crocheted  or  netted  or  tatted,  I 
make  bold  to  declare  was  essayed,  until  things 
came  to  such  a  pass  that  every  odd  bit  of  dry 
goods  lying  round  the  house  was,  in  the  absence 
of  any  positive  testimony  on  the  subject,  assumed 
to  be  one  of  my  nightcaps,  —  an  utterly  baseless 
assumption,  because  my  achievements  never  went 
so  far  as  concrete  capuality,  but  stopped  short  in 
the  later  stages  of  abstract  idealism.  However, 
prejudice  is  stronger  than  truth ;  and,  as  I  said, 
every  fragment  of  every  fabric  that  could  not  give 
an  account  of  itself  was  charged  with  being  a 
nightcap  till  it  was  proved  to  be  a  dish-cloth  or  a 
cart-rope.  I  at  length  surrendered  at  discretion, 
and  remembered  that  somewhere  in  my  reading  I 
had  met  with  exquisite  lace  caps,  and  I  did  not 
know  but  that  from  the  combined  fineness  and 


26  GALA-DAYS. 

strength  of  their  material  they  might  answer  the 
purpose,  even  if  in  form  they  should  not  be  every- 
thing that  was  desirable,  —  and  I  determined  to 
ascertain,  if  possible,  whether  such  things  existed 
anywhere  out  of  poetry. 

As  you  perceive,  therefore,  my  Boston  shopping 
was  not  every-day  trading.  It  was  to  mark  the 
abandonment  of  an  old  and  the  inauguration  of  a 
new  line  of  policy.  Thus  it  was  with  no  ordinary 
interest  that  I  looked  carefully  at  all  the  shops,  and 
when  I  found  one  that  seemed  to  hold  out  a  pos- 
sibility of  nightcaps,  I  went  in.  Halicarnassus 
obeyed  the  hint  which  I  pricked  into  him  with 
the  point  of  my  parasol,  and  stopped  outside.  The 
one  place  in  the  world  where  a  man  has  no  business 
to  be  is  the  inside  of  a  dry-goods  shop.  He  never 
looks  and  never  is  so  big  and  bungling  as  there.  A 
woman  skips  from  silk  to  muslin,  from  muslin  to 
ribbons,  from  ribbons  to  table-cloths,  with  the  grace 
and  agility  of  a  bird.  She  glides  in  and  out  among 
crowds  of  her  sex,  steers  sweepingly  clear  of  all  ob- 
stacles, and  emerges  triumphant.  A  man  enters, 
and  immediately  becomes  all  boots  and  elbows. 
He  needs  as  much  room  to  turn  round  in  as  the 
English  iron-clad  Warrior,  and  it  takes  him  about 
as  long.  He  treads  on  all  the  flounces,  runs  against 
all  the  clerks,  knocks  over  all  the  children,  and  is 
generally  under-foot.  Jf  he  gets  an  idea  into  his 
head,  a  Nims's  battery  cannot  dislodge  it.  You 
thought  of  buying  a  shawl ;  but  a  thousand  consid- 


GALA-DA  YS.  27 

erations,  in  the  shape  of  raglans,  cloaks,  talmas, 
pea-jackets,  induce  you  to  modify  your  views.  He 
stands  by  you.  He  hears  all  your  inquiries  and  all 
the  clerk's  suggestions.  The  whole  process  of  your 
reasoning  is  visible  to  his  naked  eye.  He  sees  the 
sack  or  visite  or  cape  put  upon  your  shoulders  and 
you  walking  off  in  it,  and  when  you  are  half-way 
home,  he  will  mutter,  in  stupid  amazement,  "  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  buy  a  shawl !  "  It  is 
enough  to  drive  one  wild. 

No  !  Halicarnassus  is  absurd  and  mulish  in 
many  things,  but  he  knows  I  will  not  be  ham- 
pered with  him  when  I  am  shopping,  and  he  obeys 
the  smallest  hint,  and  stops  outside. 

To  be  sure  he  .puts  my  temper  on  the  rack  by 
standing  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  or  by  look- 
ing meek,  or  likely  as  not  peering  into  the  shop- 
door  after  me  with  great  staring  eyes  and  parted 
lips ;  and  this  is  the  most  provoking  of  all.  If 
there  is  anything  vulgar,  slipshod,  and  shiftless,  it 
is  a  man  lounging  about  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  If  you  have  paws,  stow  them  away  ; 
but  if  you  are  endowed  with  hands,  learn  to  carry' 
them  properly,  or  else  cut  them  off.  Nor  can  I 
abide  a  man's  looking  as  if  he  were  under  control. 
I  wish  him  to  be  submissive,  but  I  don't  wish  him 
to  look  so.  He  shall  do  just  as  he  is  bidden,  but 
he  shall  carry  himself  like  the  man  and  monarch 
he  was  made  to  be.  Let  him  stay  where  he  is  put, 
yet  not  "as  if  he  were  put  there,  but  as  if  he  had 


28  GALA-DAYS. 

taken  his  position  deliberately.  But,  of  all  things, 
to  have  a  man  act  as  if  he  were  a  clod  just  emerged 
for  the  first  time  from  his  own  barnyard  !  Upon 
this  occasion,  however,  I  was  too  much  absorbed 
in  my  errand  to  note  anybody's  demeanor,  and  I 
threaded  straightway  the  crowd  of  customers,  wTent 
up  to  the  counter,  and  inquired  in  a  clear  voice,  — 

"  Have  you  lace  nightcaps  ?  " 

The  clerk  looked  at  me  with  a  troubled,  bewil- 
dered glance,  and  made  no  reply.  I  supposed  he 
had  not  understood  me,  and  repeated  the  question. 
Then  he  answered,  dubiously,  — 

"  We  have  breakfast-caps." 

It  was  my  turn  to  look  bewildered.  What  had 
I  to  do  with  breakfast-caps  ?  What  connection  was 
there  between  my  question  and  his  answer?  What 
field  was  there  for  any  further  inquiry  ?  "  Have 
you  ox-bows  ?  "  imagine  a  farmer  to  ask.  "  We 
have  rainbows,"  says  the  shopman.  "  Have  you 
cameo-pins  ?  "  inquires  the  elegant  Mrs.  Jenkins. 
"  We  have  linchpins."  "  Have  you  young  apple- 
trees  ?  "  asks  the  nursery-man.  "  We  have  whiffle- 
trees."  If  I  had  wanted  breakfast-caps,  should  n't 
I  have  asked  for  breakfast-caps  ?  Or  do  the  Bos- 
ton people  take  their  breakfast  at  one  o'clock  in 
the  morning  ?  I  concluded  that  the  man  was  de- 
mented, and  marched  out  of  the  shop.  When  I 
laid  the  matter  before  Halicarnassus,  the  following 
interesting  colloquy  took  place. 

I.     "  What  do  you  suppose  it  meant  ?  " 


GALA-DA  YS.  29 

H.  "  He  took  you  for  a  North  American  In- 
dian." 

I.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

H.     "  He  did  not  understand  your  patois" 

I.     "  What  patois  ?  " 

H.  "  Your  squaw  dialect.  You  should  have 
asked  for  a  bonnet  de  nuit." 

L     "Why?" 

H.  "  People  never  talk  about  nightcaps  m 
good  society." 

J.     «  Oh  !  " 

I  was  very  warm,  and  Halicarnassus  said  he  was 
tired ;  so  he  went  into  a  restaurant  and  ordered 
strawberries,  —  that  luscious  fruit,  quivering  on 
the  border-land  of  ambrosia  and  nectar. 

"Doubtless,"  says  honest,  quaint,  delightful  Isaac, 
—  and  he  never  spoke  a  truer  word,  —  "  doubtless 
God  might  have  made  a  better  berry  than  a  straw- 
berry, but  doubtless  God  never  did." 

The  bill  of  fare  rated  their  excellence  at  fifteen 
cents. 

"  Not  unreasonable,"  I  pantomimed. 

"  Not  if  I  pay  for  them,"  replied  Halicarnassus. 

Then  we  sat  and  amused  ourselves  after  the 
usual  brilliant  fashion  of  people  who  are  waiting 
in  hotel  parlors,  railroad-stations,  and  restaurants. 
We  surveyed  the  gilding  and  the  carpet  and  the 
mirrors  and  the  curtains.  We  hazarded  profound 
conjectures  touching  the  people  assembled.  We 
studied  the  bill  of  fare  as  if  it  contained  the  secret 


30  GALA-DA  YS. 

of  our  army's  delay  upon  the  Potomac,  and  had 
just  concluded  that  the  first  crop  of  strawberries 
was  exhausted,  and  they  were  waiting  for  the  sec- 
ond crop  to  grow,  when  Hebe  hove  in  sight  with 
her  nectared  ambrosia  in  a  pair  of  cracked,  browny- 
white  saucers,  with  browny-green  silver  spoons.  I 
poured  out  what  professed  to  be  cream,  but  proved 
very  low-spirited  milk,  in  which  a  few  disheartened 
strawberries  appeared  rari  nantes.  I  looked  at 
them  in  dismay.  Then  curiosity  smote  me,  and 
I  counted  them.  Just  fifteen. 

"  Cent  a  piece,"  said  Halicarnassus. 

I  was  not  thinking  of  the  cent,  but  I  had 
promised  myself  a  feast ;  and  what  is  a  feast,  sus- 
ceptible of  enumeration  ?  Cleopatra  was  right. 
"  That  love  "  —  and  the  same  is  true  of  straw- 
berries —  "is  beggarly  which  can  be  reckoned." 
Infinity  alone  is  glory. 

"  Perhaps  the  quality  will  atone  for  the  quan- 
tity," said  Halicarnassus,  scooping  up  at  least  half 
of  his  at  one  "  arm-sweep." 

"  How  do  they  taste  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Rather  coppery r"  he  answered. 

"  It  is  the  spoons  I  "  I  exclaimed,  -in  a  fright. 
"  They  are  German  silver !  You  will  be  poi- 
soned !  "  and  knocked  his  out  of  his  hand  with 
such  instinctive,  sudden  violence  that  it  flew  to 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  where  an  old  gentle- 
man sat  over  his  newspaper  and  dinner. 

He  started,  dropped  his  newspaper,  and  looked 


GALA-DAYS.  31 

around  in  a  maze.  Halicarnassus  behaved  beauti- 
fully, —  I  will  give  him  the  credit  of  it.  He  went 
on  with  my  spoon  and  his  strawberries  as  uncon- 
cernedly as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  was  con- 
scious that  I  blushed,  but  my  face  was  in  the 
shade,  and  nobody  else  knew  it ;  and  to  this  day 
I  have  no  doubt  the  old  gentleman  would  have 
marvelled  what  sent  that  mysterious  spoon  rattling 
against  his  table  and  whizzing  between  his  boots, 
had  not  Halicarnassus,  when  the  uproar  was  over, 
conceived  it  his  duty  to  go  and  pick  up  the  spoon 
and  apologize  for  the  accident,  lest  the  gentleman 
should  fancy  an  intentional  rudeness.  Partly  to 
reward  him  for  his  good  behavior,  partly  because  I 
never  did  think  it  worth  while  to  make  two  bites 
of  a  cherry,  and  partly  because  I  did  not  fancy 
being  poisoned,  I  gave  my  fifteen  berries  to  him. 
He  devoured  them  with  evident  relish. 

"  Does  my  spoon  taste  as  badly  as  yours  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  My  spoon  ?  "  inquired  he,  innocently. 

"Yes.  You  said  before  that  they  tasted  cop- 
pery." 

"  I  don't  think,"  replied  this  unprincipled  man, 
—  "I  don't  think  it  was  the  flavor  of  the  spoon 
so  much  as  of  the  coin  which  each  berry  repre- 
sented." 

If  we  could  only  have  been  at  home  ! 

I  never  made  a  more  unsatisfactory  investment 
in  my  life  than  the  one  I  made  in  that  restaurant. 


32  GALA-DAYS. 

I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  swindled,  and  I  said  so  to 
Halicarnassus.  He  remarked  that  there  was 
plenty  of  cream  and  sugar.  I  answered  curtly, 
that  the  cream  was  chiefly  water,  and  the  sugar 
chiefly  flour ;  but  if  they  had  been  Simon  Pure 
himself,  was  it  anything  but  an  aggravation  of  the 
offence  to  have  them  with  nothing  to  eat  them  on  ? 

*'  You  might  do  as  they  do  in  France,  —  carry 
away  what  you  don't  eat,  seeing  you  pay  for  it." 

"  A  pocketful  of  milk  and  water  would  be  both 
delightful  and  serviceable  ;  but  I  might  take  the 
sugar,"  I  added,  with  a  sudden  thought,  upsetting- 
the  sugar-bowl  into  a  "  Boston  Journal  "  which 
we  had  bought  in  the  train.  "  I  can  never  use  it, 
but  it  will  be  a  consolation  to  reflect  on." 

Halicarnassus,  who,  though  fertile  in  evil  con- 
ceptions, lacks  nerve  to  put  them  into  execution, 
was  somewhat  startled  at  this  sudden  change  of 
base.  He  had  no  idea  that  I  should  really  act 
upon  his  suggestion,  but  I  did.  I  bundled  the 
sugar  into  my  pocket  with  a  grim  satisfaction  ; 
and  Halicarnassus  paid  his  thirty  cents,  looking  — 
and  feeling,  as  he  afterwards  told  me  —  as  if  a 
policeman's  gripe  were  on  his  shoulders.  If  any 
restaurant  in  Boston  recollects  having  been  as- 
tonished at  any  time  during  the  summer  of  1862 
by  an  unaccountably  empty  sugar-bowl,  I  take 
this  occasion  to  explain  the  phenomenon.  .  I  gave 
the  sugar  afterwards  to  a  little  beggar-girl,  with 
a  dime  for  a  brace  of  lemons,  and  shook  off  the 


GALA-DAYS.  33 

dust  of  my  feet  against  Boston  at  the  "  B.  &  W. 
R.  R.  D." 

Boston  is  a  beautiful  city,  situated  on  a  penin- 
sula at  the  head  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  It  has 
three  streets :  Cornhill,  Washington,  and  Beacon 
Streets.  It  has  a  Common  and  a  Frog-pond,  and 
many  sprightly  squirrels.  Its  streets  are  straight, 
and  cross  each  other  like  lines  on  a  chess-board. 
It  has  a  state-house,  which  is  the  finest  edifice  in 
the  world  or  out  of  it.  It  has  one  church,  the 
Old  South,  which  was  built,  as  its  name  indicates, 
before  the  Proclamation  of  Emancipation  was 
issued.  It  has  one  bookstore,  a  lofty  and  imposing 
pile,  of  the  Egyptian  style  (and  date)  of  archi- 
tecture, on  the  corner  of  Washington  and  School 
Streets.  It  has  one  magazine,  the  "  Atlantic 
Monthly,"  one  daily  newspaper,  the  "  Boston 
Journal,"  one  religious  weekly,  the  "  Congrega- 
tionalist,"  and  one  orator,  whose  name  is  Train,  a 
model  of  chaste,  compact,  and  classic  elegance. 
In  politics,  it  was  a  Webster  Whig,  till  Whig  and 
Webster  both  went  down,  when  it  fell  apart  and 
waited  for  something  to  turn  up,  —  which  proved 
to  be  drafting.  Boston  is  called  the  Athens  of 
America.  Its  men  are  solid.  Its  women  wear 
their  bonnets  to  bed,  their  nightcaps  to  breakfast, 
and  talk  Greek  at  dinner.  I  spent  two  hours  and 
a  half  in  Boston,  and  I  know. 

We  had  a  royal  progress  from  Boston  to  Font- 
dale.  Summer  lay  on  the  shining  hills,  and  scat- 
2*  c 


34  GALA-DAYS. 

tered  benedictions.  Plenty  smiled  up  from  a  thou- 
sand fertile  fields.  Patient  oxen,  with  their  soft, 
deep  eyes,  trod  heavily  over  mines  of  greater  than 
Indian  wealth.  Kindly  cows  stood  in  the  grateful 
shade  of  cathedral  elms,  and  gave  thanks  to  God 
in  their  dumb,  fumbling  way.  Motherly,  sleepy, 
stupid  sheep  lay  on  the  plains,  little  lambs  rollicked 
out  their  short-lived  youth  around  them,  and  no 
premonition  floated  over  from  the  adjoining  pea- 
patch,  nor  any  misgiving  of  approaching  mutton 
marred  their  happy  heyday.  Straight  through  the 
piny  forests,  straight  past  the  vocal  orchards,  right 
in  among  the  robins  and  the  jays  and  the  startled 
thrushes,  we  dashed  inexorable,  and  made  harsh 
dissonance  in  the  wild-wood  orchestra  ;  but  not 
for  that  was  the  music  hushed,  nor  did  one  color 
fade.  Brooks  leaped  in  headlong  chase  down  the 
furrowed  sides  of  gray  old  rocks,  and  glided  whis- 
pering beneath  the  sorrowful  willows.  Old  trees 
renewed  their  youth  in  the  slight,  tenacious  grasp 
of  many  a  tremulous  tendril,  and,  leaping  lightly 
above  their  topmost  heights,  vine  laughed  to  vine, 
swaying  dreamily  in  the  summer  air ;  and  not  a 
vine  nor  brook  nor  hill  nor  forest  but  sent  up  a 
sweet-smelling  incense  to  its  Maker.  Not  an  ox 
or  cow  or  lamb  or  bird  living  its  own  dim  life  but 
lent  its  charm  of  unconscious  grace  to  the  great 
picture  that  unfolded  itself,  mile  after  mile,  in  ever 
fresher  loveliness  to  ever  unsated  eyes.  Well 
might  the  morning  stars  sing  together,  and  all  the 


GALA-DAYS.  35 

sons  of  God  shout  for  joy,  when  first  this  grand 
and  perfect  world  swung  free  from  its  moorings, 
flung  out  its  spotless  banner,  and  sailed  majestic 
down  the  thronging  skies.  Yet,  though  but  once 
God  spoke  the  world  to  life,  the  miracle  of  crea- 
tion is  still  incomplete.  New  every  spring-time, 
fresh  every  summer,  the  earth  comes  forth  as  a 
bride  adorned  for  her  husband.  Not  only  in  the 
gray  dawn  of  our  history,  but  now  in  the  full 
brightness  of  its  noonday,  may  we  hear  the  voice 
of  the  Lord  walking  in  the  garden.  I  look  out 
upon  the  gray  degraded  fields  left  naked  of  the 
kindly  snow,  and  inwardly  ask,  Can  these  dry 
bones  live*again  ?  And  while  the  question  is  yet 
trembling  on  my  lips,  lo  !  a  Spirit  breathes  upon 
the  earth,  and  beauty  thrills  into  bloom.  Who 
shall  lack  faith  in  man's  redemption,  when  every 
year  the  earth  is  redeemed  by  unseen  hands,  and 
death  is  lost  in  resurrection  ? 

To  Fontdale  sitting  among  her  beautiful  meadows 
we  are  borne  swiftly  on.  There  we  must  tarry  for 
.  the  night,  for  I  will  not  travel  in  the  dark  when  I 
can  help  it.  I  love  it.  There  is  no  solitude  in  the 
world,  or  at  least  I  have  never  felt  any,  like  stand- 
ing alone  in  the  doorway  of  the  rear  car  on  a  dark 
night,  and  rushing  on  through  the  darkness,  — 
darkness,  darkness  everywhere,  and  if  one  could 
only  be  sure  of  rushing  on  till  daylight  doth  ap- 
pear !  But  with  the  frightful  and  not  remote  pos- 
sibility of  bringing  up  in  a  crash  and  being  buried 


36  GALA-DAYS. 

under  a  general  huddle,  one  prefers  daylight.  You 
may  not  be  able  to  get  out  of  the  huddle  even  by 
daylight ;  but  you  will  at  least  know  where  you 
are,  if  there  is  anything  of  you  left.  So  at  Font- 
dale  Halicarnassus  branches  off  temporarily  on  a 
business  errand,  and  I  stop  for  the  night  a-cous- 
ining. 

You  object  to  this  ?  Some  people  do.  For  my 
part,  I  like  it.  You  say  you  will  not  turn  your 
own  house  or  your  friend's  house  into  a  hotel.  If 
people  wish  to  see  you,  let  them  come  and  make  a 
visit ;  if  you  wish  to  see  them,  you  will  go  and 
make  them  one  ;  but  this  touch  and  go,  —  what  is 
it  worth  ?  O  foolish  Galatians  !  much  £very  way. 
For  don't  you  see,  supposing  the  people  are  people 
you  don't  like,  how  much  better  it  is  to  have  them 
come  and  sleep  or  dine  and  be  gone  than  to  have 
them  before  your  face  and  eyes  for  a  week  ?  An 
ill  that  is  temporary  is  tolerable.  You  could  enter- 
tain the  Evil  One  himself,  if  you  were  sure  he 
would  go  away  after  dinner.  The  trouble  about 
him  is  not  so  much  that  he  comes  as  that  he  won't 
go.  He  hangs  around.  If  you  once  open  your 
door  to  him,  there  is  no  getting  rid  of  him  ;  and 
some  of  his  followers,  it  must  be  confessed,  are  just 
like  him.  You  must  resist  them  both,  or  they  will 
never  flee.  But  if  they  do  flee  after  a  day's  tarry, 
do  not  complain.  You  protest  against  turning  your 
house  into  a  hotel.  Why,  the  hotelry  is  the  least 
irksome  part  of  the  whole  business,  when  your 


GALA-DAYS.  37 

guests  are  uninteresting.  It  is  not  the  supper  or 
the  bed  that  costs,  but  keeping  people  going  after 
supper  is  over  and  before  bed-time  is  come.  Never 
complain,  if  you  have  nothing  worse  to  do  than  to 
feed  or  house  your  guests  for  a  day  or  an  hour. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  they  are  people  you  like, 
how  much  better  to  have  them  come  so  than  not  to 
come  at  all !  People  cannot  often  make  long  visits, 
—  people  that  are  worth  anything,  —  people  who 
use  life ;  and  they  are  the  only  ones  that  are  worth 
anything.  And  if  you  cannot  get  your  good 
things  in  the  lump,  are  you  going  to  refuse  them 
altogether  ?  By  no  means.  You  are  going  to 
take  them  by  driblets,  and  if  you  will  only  be 
sensible  and  not  pout,  but  keep  your  tin  pan  right 
side  up,  you  will  find  that  golden  showers  will 
drizzle  through  all  your  life.  So,  with  never  a 
nugget  in  your  chest,  you  shall  die  rich.  If  you 
can  stop  over-night  with  your  friend,  you  have  no 
sand-grain,  but  a  very  respectable  boulder.  For  a 
night  is  infinite.  Daytime  is  well  enough  for  busi- 
ness, but  it  is  little  worth  for  happiness.  You  sit 
down  to  a  book,  to  a  picture,  to  a  friend,  and  the 
first  you  know  it  is  time  to  get  dinner,  or  time  to 
eat  it,  or  time  for  the  train,  or  you  must  put  out 
your  dried  apples,  or  set  the  bread  to  rising,  or 
something  breaks  in  impertinently  and  chokes  you 
off  at  flood-tide.  But  the  night  has  no  end.  Every- 
thing is  done  but  that  which  you  would  be  forever 
doing.  The  curtains  are  drawn,  the  lamp  is  lighted 


38  GALA-DA  YS. 

and  veiled  into  exquisite  soft  shadowiness.  All  the 
world  is  far  off.  All  its  din  and  dole  strike  into  the 
bank  of  darkness  that  envelops  you  and  are  lost  to 
your  tranced  sense.  In  all  the  world  are  only  your 
friend  and  you,  and  then  you  strike  out  your  oars, 
silver-sounding,  into  the  shoreless  night. 

But  the  night  comes  to  an  end,  you  say.  No, 
it  does  not.  It  is  you  that  come  to  an  end.  You 
grow  sleepy,  clod  that  you  are.  But  as  you  don't 
think,  when  you  begin,  that  you  ever  shall  grow 
sleepy,  it  is  just  the  same  as  if  you  never  did.  For 
you  have  no  foreshadow  of  an  inevitable  termina- 
tion to  your  rapture,  and  so  practically  your  night 
has  no  limit.  It  is  fastened  at  one  end  to  the  sun- 
set, but  the  other  end  floats  off  into  eternity.  And 
there  really  is  no  abrupt  termination.  You  roll 
down  the  inclined  plane  of  your  social  happiness 
into  the  bosom  of  another  happiness,  —  sleep. 
Sleep  for  the  sleepy  is  bliss  just  as  truly  as  soci- 
ety to  the  lonely.  What  in  the  distance  would 
have  seemed  Purgatory,  once  reached,  is  Para- 
dise, and  your  happiness  is  continuous.  Just  as 
it  is  in  mending.  Short-sighted,  superficial,  unre- 
flecting people  have  a  way  —  which  in  time  fos- 
silizes into  a  principle  —  of  mending  everything  as 
soon  as  it  comes  up  from  the  wash,  —  a  very  un- 
thrifty, uneconomical  habit,  if  you  use  the  words 
thrift  and  economy  in  the  only  way  in  which  they 
ought  to  be  used,  namely,  as  applied  to  what  is 
worth  economizing.  Time,  happiness,  life,  these 


GALA-DAYS.  39 

are  the  only  things  to  be  thrifty  about.  But  I  see 
people  working  and  worrying  over  quince-marma- 
lade and  tucked  petticoats  and  embroidered  chair- 
covers,  things  that  perish  with  the  using  and  leave 
the  user  worse  than  they  found  him.  This  I  call 
waste  and  wicked  prodigality.  Life  is  too  short 
to  permit  us  to  fret  about  matters  of  no  impor- 
tance. Where  these  things  can  minister  to  the 
mind  and  heart,  they  are  a  part  of  the  soul's 
furniture  ;  but  where  they  only  pamper  the  ap- 
petite or  the  vanity,  or  any  foolish  and  hurtful 
lust,  they  are  foolish  and  hurtful.  Be  thrifty  of 
comfort.  Never  allow  an  opportunity  for  cheer, 
for  pleasure,  for  intelligence,  for  benevolence,  for 
any  kind  of  good,  to  go  unimproved.  Consider 
seriously  whether  the  syrup  of  your  preserves  or 
the  juices  of  your  own  soul  will  do  the  most  to 
serve  your  race.  It  may  be  that  they  are  compat- 
ible, —  that  the  concoction  of  the  one  shall  provide 
the  ascending  sap  of  the  other  ;  but  if  it  is  not  so, 
if  one  must  be  sacrificed,  do  not  hesitate  a  moment 
as  to  which  it  shall  be.  If  a  peach  does  not  become 
sweetmeat,  it  will  become  something,  it  will  not 
stay  a  withered,  unsightly  peach  ;  but  for  souls 
there  is  no  transmigration  out  of  fables.  Once  a 
soul,  forever  a  soul, — mean  or  mighty,  shrivelled  or 
full,  it  is  for  you  to  say.  Money,  land,  luxury,  so 
far  as  they  are  money,  land,  and  luxury,  are  worth- 
less. It  is  only  as  fast  and  as  far  as  they  are  turned 
into  life  that  they  acquire  value. 


40  GALA-DA  YS. 

So  you  are  thriftless  when  you  eagerly  seize  the 
first  opportunity  to  fritter  away  your  time  over 
old  clothes.  You  precipitate  yourself  unnecessa- 
rily against  a  disagreeable  thing.  For  you  are  not 
going  to  put  your  stockings  on.  Perhaps  you  will 
not  need  your  buttons  for  a  week,  and  in  a  week 
you  may  have  passed  beyond  the  jurisdiction  of 
buttons.  But  even  if  you  should  not,  let  the  but- 
tons and  the  holes  alone  all  the  same.  For,  first, 
the  pleasant  and  profitable  thing  which  you  will 
do  instead  is  a  funded  capital,  which  will  roll  you 
up  a  perpetual  interest ;  and  secondly,  the  disa- 
greeable duty  is  forever  abolished.  I  say  forever, 
because,  when  you  have  gone  without  the  button 
awhile,  the  inconvenience  it  occasions  will  recon- 
cile you  to  the  necessity  of  sewing  it  on,  —  will 
even  go  further,  and  make  it  a  positive  relief 
amounting  to  positive  pleasure.  Besides,  every 
time  you  use  it,  for  a  long  while  after,  you  will 
have  a  delicious  sense  of  satisfaction,  such  as  ac- 
companies the  sudden  complete  cessation  of  a  dull, 
continuous  pain.  Thus  what  was  at  best  charac- 
terless routine,  and  most  likely  an  exasperation,  is 
turned  into  actual  delight,  and  adds  to  the  sum  of 
life.  This  is  thrift.  This  is  economy.  But,  alas ! 
few  people  understand  the  art  of  living.  They 
strive  after  system,  wholeness,  buttons,  and  neg- 
lect the  weightier  matters  of  the  higher  law. 

1  wonder  how  I  got  here,  or  how  I  am  to 

get  back  again.  I  started  for  Fontdale,  and  I  find 


GALA-DA  YS.  41 

myself  in  a  mending-basket.     As  I  know  no  good 
in  tracing  the  same  road  back,  we  may  as  well 
strike  a  bee-line  and  begin  new  at  Fontdale. 
We  stopped  at  Fontdale  a-cousining.     I  have  a 

veil,  a  beautiful h  ave,  did  I  say  ?    Alas !  Troy 

was.     But  I  must  not  anticipate a  beautiful 

veil  of  brown  tissue,  none  of  your  woolleny,  gruff 
fabrics,  fit  only  for  penance,  but  a  silken,  gossamery 
cloud,  soft  as  a  baby's  cheek.  Yet  everybody  fleers 
at  it.  Everybody  has  a  joke  about  it.  Everybody 
looks  at  it,  and  holds  it  out.  at  arms'  length,  and 
shakes  it,  and  makes  great  eyes  at  it,  and  s;rys, 
"  What  in  the  world  —  "  and  ends  with  a  huge, 
bouncing  laugh.  Why  ?  One  is  ashamed  of  hu- 
man nature  at  being  forced  to  confess.  Because, 
to  use'  a  Gulliverism,  it  is  longer  by  the  breadth  of 
my  nail  than  any  of  its  contemporaries.  In  fact,  it 
is  two  yards  long.  That  is  all.  Halicarnassus  fired 
the  first  gun  at  it  by  saying  that  its  length  was  to 
enable  one  end  of  it  to  remain  at  home  while  the 
other  end  went  with  me,  so  that  neither  of  us 
should  get  lost.  This  is  an  allusion  to  a  habit 
which  I  and  my  property  have  of  finding  our- 
selves individually  and  collectively  left  in  the 
lurch.  After  this  initial  shot,  everybody  consid- 
ered himself  at  liberty  to  let  off  his  rusty  old  blun- 
derbuss, and  there  was  a  constant  peppering.  But 
my  veil  never  lowered  its  colors  nor  curtailed  its 
resources.  Alas !  what  ridicule  and  contumely 
failed  to  effect,  destiny  accomplished.  Softness 


42  GALA-DAYS. 

and  plenitude  are  no  shields  against  the  shafts 
of  fate. 

I  went  into  the  station  waiting-room  to  write  a 
note.  I  laid  my  bonnet,  my  veil,  my  packages 
upon  the  table,  I  wrote  my  note.  I  went  away. 
The  next  morning,  when  I  would  have  arrayed 
myself  to  resume  my  journey,  there  was  no  veil. 
I  remembered  that  I  had  taken  it  into  the  station 
the  night  before,  and  that  I  had  not  taken  it  out. 
At  the  station  we  inquired  of  the  waiting-woman 
concerning  it.  It  is  as  much  as  your  life  is  worth 
to  ask  these  people  about  lost  articles.  They  take 
it  for  granted  at  the  first  blush  that  you  mean  to 
accuse  them  of  stealing.  "  Have  you  seen  a 
brown  veil  lying  about  anywhere  ?  "  asked  Crene, 
her  sweet  bird-voice  warbling  out  from  her  sweet 
rose-lips.  "  No,  I  Vn't  seen  nothin'  of  it,"  says 
Gnome,  with  magnificent  indifference. 

"  It  was  lost  here  last  night,"  continues  Crene, 
in  a  soliloquizing  undertone,  pushing  investigating 
glances  beneath  the  sofas. 

"  I  do'  know  nothin'  about  it.  /  'a'n't  took 
it "  ;  and  the  Gnome  tosses  her  head  back  defi- 
antly. "  I  seen  the  lady  when  she  was  a-writin' 
of  her  letter,  and  when  she  went  out  ther'  wa'n't 
nothin'  left  on  the  table  but  a  hangkerchuf,  and 
that  wa'n't  hern.  I  do'  know  nothin'  about  it, 
nor  I  Vn't  seen  nothin'  of  it." 

O  no,  my  Gnome,  you  knew  nothing  of  it; 
you  did  not  take  it.  But  since  no  one  accused 


GALA-DAYS.  43 

you,  or  even  suspected  you,  why  could  you  not 
have  been  less  aggressive  and  more  sympathetic 
in  your  assertions  ?  But  \ve  will  plough  no  longer 
in  that  field.  The  ploughshare  has  struck  against 
a  rock  and  grits,  denting  its  edge  in  vain.  My 
veil  is  gone,  —  my  ample,  historic,  heroic  veil. 
There  is  a  woma'n  in  Fontdale  who  breathes  air 
filtered  through  —  I  will  not  say  stolen  tissue,  but 
certainly  through  tissue  which  was  obtained  with- 
out rendering  its  owner  any  fair  equivalent.  Does 
not  every  breeze  that  softly  stirs  its  fluttering  folds 
say  to  her,  "  O  friend,  this  veil  is  not  yours,  not 
yours,"  and  still  sighingly,  "  not  yours  !  Up 
among  the  northern  hills,  yonder  towards  the  sun- 
set, sits  the  owner,  sorrowful,  weeping,  wailing  "  ? 
I  believe  I  am  wading  out  into  the  Sally  Waters 
of  Mother  Goosery  ;  but,  prose  or  poetry,  some- 
where a  woman,  —  and  because  nobody  of  taste 
could  surreptitiously  possess  herself  of  my  veil,  I 
have  no  doubt  that  she  cut  it  incontinently  into 
two  equal  parts,  and  gave  one  to  her  sister,  and 
that  there  are  two  women,  —  nay,  since  niggardly 
souls  have  no  sense  of  grandeur,  and  will  shave 
down  to  microscopic  dimensions,  it  is  every  way 
probable  that  she  divided  it  into  three  unequal 
parts,  and  took  three  quarters  of  a  yard  for  her- 
self, three  quarters  for  her  sister,  and  gave  the 
remaining  half-yard  to  her  daughter,  and  that  at 
this  very  moment  there  are  two  women  and  a  little 
girl  taking  their  walks  abroad  under  the  silken 


44  GALA-DA  YS. 

shadows  of  my  veil !  And  yet  there  are  people 
who  profess  to  disbelieve  in  total  depravity. 

Nor  did  the  veil  walk  away  alone.  My  trunk 
became  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  adventure,  and 
branched  off  on  its  own  account  up  somewhere 
into  Vermont.  I  suppose  it  would  have  kept  on 
and  reached  perhaps  the  North  Pole  by  this  time, 
had  not  Crene's  dark  eyes,  —  so  pretty  to  look  at 
that  one  instinctively  feels  they  ought  not  to  be 
good  for  anything,  if  a  just  impartiality  is  to  be 
maintained,  but  they  are,  —  had  not  Crene's  dark 
eyes  seen  it  tilting  into  a  baggage-crate,  and  trun- 
dling off  towards  the  Green  Mountains,  but  too 
late.  Of  course  there  was  a  formidable  hitch  in 
the  progi-amme.  A  court  of  justice  was  impro- 
vised on  the  car-steps.  I  was  the  plaintiff,  Crene 
chief  evidence,  baggage-master  both  defendant  and 
examining-counsel.  The  case  did  not  admit  of 
a  doubt.  There  was  the  little  insurmountable 
check,  whose  brazen  lips  could  speak  no  lie. 

"  Keep  hold  of  that,"  whispered  Crene,  and  a 
yoke  of  .oxen  could  not  have  drawn  it  from  me. 

44  You  are  sure  you  had  it  marked  for  Fontdale," 
says  Mr.  Baggage-master. 

I  hold  the  impracticable  check  before  his  eyes 
in  silence. 

44  Yes,  well,  it  must  have  gone  on  to  Albany." 

44  But  it  went  away  on  that  track,"  says  Crene. 

44  Could  n't  have  gone  on  that  track.  Of  course 
they  wouldn't  have  carried  it  away  over  therw 
just  to  make  it  go  wrong." 


GALA-DAYS.  45 

For  me,  I  am  easily  persuaded  and  dissuaded. 
If  he  had  told  me  that  it  must  have  gone  in  such 
a  direction,  that  it  was  a  moral  and  mental  impos- 
sibility it  should  have  gone  in  any  other,  and  have 
said  it  times  enough,  with  a  certain  confidence 
and  contempt  of  any  other  contingency,  I  should 
gradually  have  lost  faith  in  my  own  eyes,  and 
said,  "Well,  I  suppose  it  did."  But  Crene  is 
not  to  be  asserted  into  yielding  one  inch,  and 
insists  that  the  trunk  went  to  Vermont  and  not 
to  New  York,  and  is  thoroughly  unmanageable. 
Then  the  baggage-master,  in  anguish  of  soul,  trots 
out  his  subordinates,  one  after  another,  — 

"  Is  this  the  man  that  wheeled  the  trunk  away  ? 
Is  this  ?  Is  this  ?  " 

The  brawny-armed  fellows  hang  back,  and 
scowl,  and  muffle  words  in  a  very  suspicious  man- 
ner, and  protest  they  won't  be  got  into  a  scrape. 
But  Crene  has  no  scrape  for  them.  She  cannot 
swear  to  their  identity.  She  had  eyes  only  for 
the  trunk. 

"  Well,"  says  Baggage-man,  at  his  wits'  end, 
"  you  let  me  take  your  check,  and  I  '11  send  the 
trurik  on  by  express,  when  it  comes." 

I  pity  him,  and  relax  my  clutch. 

"  No,"  whispers  Crene  ;  "  as  long  as  you  have 
your  check,  you  as  good  as  have  your  trunk  ;  but 
when  you  give  that  up,  you  have  nothing.  Keep 
that  till  you  see  your  trunk." 

My  clutch  re-tightens. 


46  GALA-DAYS. 

"  At  any  rate,  you  can  wait  till  the  next  train, 
and  see  if  does  n't  come  back.  You  '11  get  to  your 
journey's  end  just  as  soon." 

"  Shall  I  ?     Well,  I  will,"  compliant  as  usual. 

"  No,"  interposes  my  good  genius  again.  "  Men 
are  always  saying  that  a  woman  never  goes  when 
she  engages  to  go.  She  is  always  a  train  later  or 
a  train  earlier,  and  you  can't  meet  her." 

Pliant  to  the  last  touch,  I  say  aloud,  — 

"  No,  I  must  go  in  this  train  "  ;  and  so  I  go, 
trunkless  and  crestfallen,  to  meet  Halicarnassus. 

It  is  a  dismal  day,  and  Crene,  to  comfort  me, 
puts  into  my  hands  two  books  as  companions  by 
the  way.  They  are  Coventry  Patmore's  "  Angel 
in  the  House,"  "  The  Espousals  and  the  Be- 
trothal." I  do  not  approve  of  reading  in  the 
cars  ;  but  without  is  a  dense,  white,  unvarying 
fog,  and  within  my  heart  it  is  not  clear  sunshine. 
So  I  turn  to  my  books. 

Did  any  one  ever  read  them  before?  Some- 
body wrote  a  vile  review  of  them  once,  and  gave 
the  idea  of  a  very  puerile,  ridiculous,  apron-stringy 
attempt  at  poetry.  Whoever  wrote  that  notice 
ought  to  be  shot,  for  the  books  are  charming,  — 
pure  and  homely  and  householdy,  yet  not  effemi- 
nate. Critics  may  sneer  as  much  as  they  choose  : 
it  is  such  love  as  Vaughan's  that  Honorias  value. 
Because  a  woman's  nature  is  not  proof  against  de- 
terioration, because  a  large  and  long-continued 
infusion  of  gross  blood,  and  perhaps  even  the  mo- 


GALA-DA  YS.  47 

notorious  pressure  of  rough,  pitiless,  degrading 
circumstances,  may  displace,  eat  out,  rub  off  the 
delicacy  of  a  soul,  may  change  its  texture  to  un- 
natural coarseness  and  scatter  ashes  for  beauty, 
women  do  exist,  victims  rather  than  culprits, 
coarse  against  their  nature,  hard,  material,  grasp- 
ing, the  saddest  sight  humanity  can  see.  Such  a 
woman  can  accept  coarse  men.  They  may  come 
courting  on  all  fours,  and  she  will  not  be  shocked. 
But  women  in  the  natural  state  wish  men  to  stand 
godlike  erect,  to  tread  majestically,  and  live  deli- 
cately. Women  do  not  often  make  an  ado  about 
this.  They  talk  it  over  among  themselves,  and 
take  men  as  they  are.  They  quietly  soften  them 
down,  and  smooth  them  out,  and  polish  them  up, 
and  make  the  best  of  them,  and  simply  and  sedu- 
lously shut  their  eyes  and  make  believe  there  is  n't 
any  worst,  or  reason  it  away,  —  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  should  think  they  would.  But  if  you 
would  see  the  qualities  that  a  woman  spontaneously 
loves,  the  expression,  the  tone,  the  bearing  that 
thoroughly  satisfies  her  self-respect,  that  not  only 
secures  her  acquiescence,  but  arouses  her  enthu- 
siasm and  commands  her  abdication,  crucify  the 
flesh,  and  read  Coventry  Patmore.  Not  that  he 
is  the  world's  great  poet,  nor  Arthur  Vaughan  the 
ideal  man  ;  but  this  I  do  mean  :  that  the  delicacy, 
the  spirituality  of  his  love,  the  scrupulous  respect- 
fulness of  his  demeanor,  his  unfeigned  inward 
humility,  as  far  removed  from  servility  on  the  one 


48  GALA-DA  YS. 

side  as  from  assumption  on  the  other,  and  less  the 
opponent  than  the  offspring  of  self-respect,  his 
thorough  gentleness,  guilelessness,  deference,  his 
manly,  unselfish  homage,  are  such  qualities,  and 
such  alone,  as  lead  womanhood  captive.  Listen 
to  me,  you  rattling,  roaring,  rollicking  Ralph 
Roister  Doisters,  you  calm,  inevitable  Gradgrinds, 
as  smooth,  as  sharp,  as  bright  as  steel,  and  as  soul- 
less, and  you  men,  whoever,  whatever,  and  wher- 
ever you  are,  with  fibres  of  rope  and  nerves  of 
wire,  there  is  many  and  many  a  woman  who  toler- 
ates you  because  she  finds  you,  but  there  is  noth- 
ing in  her  that  ever  goes  out  to  seek  you.  Be  not 
deceived  by  her  placability.  "  Here  he  is,"  she 
says  to  herself,  "  and  something  must  be  done 
about  it.  Buried  under  Ossa  and  Pelion  some- 
where he  must  be  supposed  to  have  a  soul,  and 
the  sooner  he  is  dug  into  the  sooner  it  will  be 
exhumed."  So  she  digs.  She  would  never  have 
made  you,  nor  of  her  own  free-will  elected  you ; 
but  being  made,  such  as  you  are,  and  on  her 
hands  in  one  way  or  another,  she  carves  and 
chisels,  and  strives  to  evoke  from  the  block  a 
breathing  statue.  She  may  succeed  so  far  as  that 
you  shall  become  her  Frankenstein,  a  great,  sad, 
monstrous,  incessant,  inevitable  caricature  of  her 
ideal,  the  monument  at  once  of  her  success  and 
her  failure,  the  object  of  her  compassion,  the 
intimate  sorrow  of  her  soul,  a  vast  and  dreadful 
form  into  which  her  creative  power  can  breathe 


GALA-DA  YS.  49 

the  breath  of  life,  but  not  of  sympathy.  Per- 
haps she  loves  you  with  a  remorseful,  pitying, 
protesting  love,, and  carries  you  on  her  shuddering 
shoulders  to  the  grave.  Probably,  as  she  is  good 
and  wise,  you  will  never  find  it  out.  A  limpid 
brook  ripples  in  beauty  and  bloom  by  the  side  of 
your  muddy,  stagnant  self-complacence,  and  you 
discern  no  essential  difference.  "  Water  's  water," 
you  say,  with  your  broad,  stupid  generalization, 
and  go  oozing  along  contentedly  through  peat-bogs 
and  meadow-ditches,  mounting,  perhaps,  in  mo- 
ments of  inspiration,  to  the  moderate  sublimity  of 
a  cranberry-rheadow,  but  subsiding  with  entire 
satisfaction  into  a  muck-puddle  :  and  all  the  while 
the  little  brook  that  you  patronize  when  you  are 
full-fed,  and  snub  when  you  are  hungry,  and  look 
down  upon  always,  —  the  little  brook  is  singing  its 
own  melody  through  grove  and  orchard  and  sweet 
wild-wood,  —  singing  with  the  birds  and  the 
blooms  songs  that  you  cannot  hear ;  but  they  are 
heard  by  the  silent  stars,  singing  on  and  on  into  a 
broader  and  deeper  destiny,  till  it  pours,  one  day, 
its  last  earthly  note,  and  becomes  forevermore  the 
unutterable  sea. 

And  you  are  nothing  but  a  ditch. 

No,  my  friend,  Lucy  will  drive  with  you,  and 
talk  to  you,  and  sing  your  songs  ;  she  will  take 
care  of  you,  and  pray  for  you,  and  cry  when  you 
go  to  the  war ;  if  she  is  not  your  daughter  or  your 
sister,  she  will,  perhaps,  in  a  moment  of  weakness 


50  GALA-DAYS. 

or  insanity,  marry  you ;  she  will  be  a  faithful  wife, 
and  float  you  to  the  end ;  but  if  you  wish  to  be 
her  love,  her  hero,  her  ideal,  her  delight,  her 
spontaneity,  her  utter  rest  and  ultimatum,  you 
must  attune  your  soul  to  fine  issues,  —  you  must 
bring  out  the  angel  in  you,  and  keep  the  brute 
under.  It  is  not  that  you  shall  stop  making  shoes, 
and  begin  to  write  poetry.  That  is  just  as  much 
discrimination  as  you  have.  Tell  you  to  be  gentle, 
and  you  think  we  will  have  you  dissolve  into  milk- 
and-water;  tell  you  to  be  polite,  and  you  infer 
hypocrisy;  to  be  neat,  and  you  leap  over  into 
dandyism,  fancying  all  the  while  that  bluster  is 
manliness.  No,  sir.  You  may  make  shoes,  you 
may  run  engines,  you  may  carry  coals ;  you  may 
blow  the  huntsman's  horn,  hurl  the  base-ball,  fol- 
low the  plough,  smite  the  anvil ;  your  face  may  be 
brown,  your  veins  knotted,  your  hands  grimed ; 
and  yet  you  may  be  a  hero.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,,  you  may  write  verses  and  be  a  clown.  It 
is  not  necessary  to  feed  on  ambrosia  in  order  to 
become  divine ;  nor  shall  one  be  accursed,  though 
he  drink  of  the  ninefold  Styx.  The  Israelites  ate 
angels'  food  in  the  Wilderness,  and  remained  stiff- 
necked  and  uncircumcised  in  heart  and  ears.  The 
white  water-lily  feeds  on  slime,  and  unfolds  a 
heavenly  glory.  Come  as  the  June  morning 
comes.  It  has  not  picked  its  way  daintily,  pass- 
ing only  among  the  roses.  It  has  breathed  up  the 
whole  earth.  It  has  blown  through  the  fields  and 


GALA-DAYS.  51 

tne  barn-yards  and  all  the  common  places  of  the 
land.  It  has  shrunk  from  nothing.  Its  purity- 
has  breasted  and  overborne  all  tilings,  and  so  min- 
gled and  harmonized  all  that  it  sweeps  around 
your  forehead  and  sinks  into  your  heart  as  soft  and 
sweet  and  pure  as  the  fragrancy  of  Paradise.  So 
come  you,  rough  from  the  world's  rough  work, 
with  all  out-door  airs  blowing  around  you,  and  all 
your  earth-smells  clinging  to  you,  but  with  a  fine 
inward  grace,  so  strong,  so  sweet,  so  salubrious 
that  it  meets  and  masters  all  things,  blending 
every  faintest  or  foulest  odor  of  earthliness  into  the 
grateful  incense  of  a  pure  and  lofty  life. 

Thus  I  read  and  mused  in  the  soft  summer  fog, 
and  the  first  I  knew  the  cars  had  stopped,  I  was 
standing  on  the  platform,  and  Coventry  and  his 
knight  were  —  where  ?  Wandering  up  and  down 
somewhere  among  the  Berkshire  hills.  At  some 
junction  of  roads,  I  suppose,  I  left  them  on  the 
cushion,  for  I  have  never  beheld  them  since.  Tell 
me,  O  ye  daughters  of  Berkshire !  have  you  seen 
them,  —  a  princely  pair,  sore  weary  in  your  moun- 
tain-land, but  regal  still,  through  all  their  travel- 
stain?  I  pray  you,  entreat  them  hospitably,  for 
their  mission  is  "  hot  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time." 


II. 


HE  descent  from  Patmore  and  poetry 
to  New  York  is  somewhat  abrupt,  not 
to  say  precipitous,  but  we  made  it  in 
safety  ;  and  so  shall  you,  if  you  wiL 
be  agile. 

New  York  is  a  pleasant  little  Dutch  city,  on  a 
dot  of  island  a  few  miles  southwest  of  Massachu- 
setts. For  a  city  entirely  unobtrusive  and  unpre- 
tending, it  has  really  great  attractions  and  solid 
merit ;  but  the  superior  importance  of  other  places 
will  not  permit  me  to  tarry  long  within  its  hospi- 
table walls.  In  fact,  we  only  arrived  late  at  night, 
and  departed  early  the  next  morning  ;  but  even  a 
six-hours  sojourn  gave  me  a  solemn  and  "  realiz- 
ing sense "  of  its  marked  worth,  —  for,  when, 
tired  and  listless,  I  asked  for  a  servant  to  assist 
me,  the  waiter  said  he  would  send  the  housekeep- 
er. Accordingly,  when,  a  few  moments  after,  it 
knocked  at  the  door  with  light,  light  linger,  (see 
De  la  Motte  Fouque",)  I  drawled,  "  Come  in," 
and  the  Queen  of  Sheba  stood  before  me,  clad  in 


GALA-DAYS.  53 

purple  and  fine  linen,  with  rings  on  her  fingers 
and  bells  on  her  toes.  I  stared  in  dismay,  and 
perceived  myself  rapidly  transmigrating  into  a 
ridiculus  mus.  My  gray  and  dingy  travelling- 
dress  grew  abject,  and  burned  into  my  soul  like 
the  tunic  of  Nessus.  I  should  as  soon  have 
thought  of  asking  Queen  Victoria  to  brush  out 
my  hair  as  that  fine  lady  in  brocade  silk  and 
Mechlin  lace.  But  she  was  good  and  gracious, 
and  did  not  annihilate  me  on  the  spot,  as  she 
might  easily  have  done,  for  which  I  shall  thank 
her  as  long  as  I  live. 

"  You  sent  for  me  ?  "  she  inquired,  with  the 
blandest  accents  imaginable.  I  can't  tell  a  lie, 
pa,  —  you  know  I  can't  tell  a  lie  ;  besides,  I  had 
not  time  to  make  up  one,  and  I  said,  "  Yes,"  and 
then,  of  all  stupid  devices  that  could  filter  into  my 
soggy  brain,  I  must  needs  .stammer  out  that  I 
should  like  a  few  matches  !  A  pretty  thing  to 
bring  a  dowager  duchess  up  nine  pairs  of  stairs 
for! 

"  I  will  ring  the  bell,"  she  said,  with  a  tender, 
reproachful  sweetness  and  dignity,  which  conveyed 
without  unkindness  the  severest  rebuke  tempered 
by  womanly,  pity,  and  proceeded  to  instruct  me 
in  the  nature  and  uses  of  the  bell-rope,  as  she 
would  any.  little  dairy-maid  who  had  heard  only 
the  chime  of  cow-bells  ah1  the  days  of  her  life. 
Then  she  sailed  out  of  the  room,  serene  and  ma- 
jestic,- like  a  seventy-four  man-of-war,  while  I,  a 


54  GALA-DAYS. 

squalid,  salt-hay  gunlow,  (Venetian  blind-ed  into 
gondola,)  first  sank  down  in  confusion,  and  then 
rose  up  in  fury  and  brushed  all  the  hair  out  of 
my  head. 

"  I  declare,"  I  said  to  Halicarnassus,  when  we 
were  fairly  beyond  ear-shot  of  the  city  next 
morning,  "  I  don't  approve  of  sumptuary  laws, 
and  I  like  America  to  be  the  El  Dorado  of  the 
poor  man,  and  I  go  for  the  largest  liberty  of  the 
individual ;  but  I  do  think  there  ought  to  be  a 
clause  in  the  Constitution  providing  that  servants 
shall  not  be  dressed  and  educated  and  accom- 
plished up  to  the  point  of  making  people  uncom- 
fortable." 

.  "  No,"  said  Halicarnassus,  sleepily  ;    "  perhaps 
it  was  n't  a  servant." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  having  looked  at  it  in  that  light 
silently  for  half  an  hour,  and  coming  to  the  sur- 
face in  another  place,  "  if  I  could  dress  and  carry 
myself  like  that,  I  would  not  keep  tavern." 

"  Oh  !  eh  ?  "  yawning  ;  "  who  does  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Astor.  Of  course  nobody  less  rich  than 
Mrs.  Astor  could  go  up-stairs  and  down-stairs  and 
in  my  lady's  chamber  in  Shiraz  silk  and  gold  of 
Ophir.  Why,  Cleopatra  was  nothing  to  her.  I 
make  no  doubt  she  uses  gold-dust  for  sugar  in  her 
coffee  every  morning;  and  as  for  the  three  mis- 
erable little  wherries  that  Isabella  furnished  Co- 
lumbus, and  historians  have  towed  through  their 
tomes  ever  since,  if  you  know  of  anybody  that 


GALA-DAYS.  55 

has  a  continent  he  wishes  to  discover,  send  him 
to  this  housekeeper,  and  she  can  fit  out  a  fleet  of 
transports  and  Monitors  for  convoy  with  one  of 
her  bracelets." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Halicarnassus,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"  I  only  wish,"  I  added,  "  that  she  would  turn 
Rebel,  so  that  government  might  confiscate  her. 
Paper  currency  would  go  up  at  once  from  the 
sudden  influx  of  gold,  and  the  credit  of  the 
country  receive  a  new  lease  of  life.  She  must  be 
a  lineal  descendant  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  for 
I  am  sure  her  finger  sparkles  with  a  hundred  of 
his  richest  acres." 

Before  bidding  a  final  farewell  to  New  York,  I 
shall  venture  to  make  a  single  remark.  I  regret 
to  be  forced  to  confess  that  I  greatly  fear  even 
this  virtuous  little  city  has  not  escaped  quite  free, 
in  the  general  deterioration  of  morals  and  man- 
ners. The  New  York  hackmen,  for  instance,  are 
very  obliging  and  attentive  ;  but  if  it  would  not 
seem  ungrateful,  I  would  hazard  the  statement 
that  their  attentions  are  unremitting  to  the  degree 
of  being  almost  embarrassing,  and  proffered  to  the 
verge  of  obtrusiveness.  I  think,  in  short,  that 
they  are  hardly  quite  delicate  in  their  politeness. 
They  press  their  hospitality  on  you  till  you  sigh 
for  a  little  marked  neglect.  They  are  not  content 
with  simple  statement.  They  offer  you  their 
hack,  for  instance.  You  decline  with  thanks. 
They  say  that  they  will  carry  you  to  any  part  of 


56  GALA-DAYS. 

the  city.  Where  is  the  pertinence  of  that,  if  you 
do  not  wish  to  go  ?  But  they  not  only  say  it, 
they  repeat  it,  they  dwell  upon  it  as  if  it  were  a 
cardinal  virtue.  Now  you  have  never  expressed 
or  entertained^  the  remotest  suspicion  that  they 
would  not  carry  you  to  any  part  of  the  city.  You 
have  not  the  slightest  intention  or  desire  to  dis- 
credit their  assertion.  The  only  trouble  is,  as 
I  said  before,  you  do  not  wish  to  go  to  any 
part  of  the  city.  Very  few  people  have  time 
to  drive  about  in  that  general  way  ;  and  surely, 
when  you  have  once  distinctly  informed  them  that 
you  do  not  design  to  inspect  New  York,  they 
ought  to  see  plainly  that  you  cannot  change  your 
whole  plan  of  operations  out  of  gratitude  to  them, 
and  that  the  part  of  true  politeness  is  to  withdraw. 
But  they  even  go  beyond  a  censurable  urgency ; 
for  an  old  gentleman  and  lady,  evidently  unac- 
customed to  travelling,  had  given  themselves  in 
charge  of  a  driver,  who  placed  them  in  his  coach, 
leaving  the  door  open  while  he  went  back  seeking 
whom  he  might  devour.  Presently  a  rival  coach- 
man came  up  and  said  to  the  aged  and  respectable 
couple,  — 

"  Here  's  a  carriage  all  ready  to  start." 
"  But,"  replied  the  lady,  "  we  have  already  told 
the   gentleman   who   drives   this    coach    that   we 
would  go  with  him." 

"  Catch  me  to  go  in  that  coach,  if  I  was  you  !  " 
responded  the  wicked  coachman.  "  Why,  that 
coach  has  had  the  small-pox  in  it." 


GALA-DAYS.  57 

The  lady  started  up  in  horror.  At  that  moment 
the  first  driver  appeared  again,  and  Satan  entered 
into  me,  and  I  felt  in  my  heart  that  I  should  like 
to  see  a  fight ;  and  then  conscience  stepped  up 
and  drove  him  away,  but  consoled  me  by  the 
assurance  that  I  should  see  the  fight  all  the  same, 
for  such  duplicity  deserved  the  severest  punish- 
ment, and  it  was  my  duty  to  make  an  expose  and 
vindicate  helpless  innocence  imposed  upon  in  the 
persons  of  that  worthy  pair.  Accordingly  I  said 
to  the  driver,  as  he  passed  me,  — 

"  Driver,  that  man  in  the  gray  coat  is  trying  to 
frighten  the  old  lady  and  gentleman  away  from 
your  coach,  by  telling  them  it  has  had  the  small- 
pox." 

Oh  !  but  did  not  the  fire  flash  into  his  honest 
eyes,  and  leap  into  his  swarthy  cheek,  and  nerve 
his  brawny  arm,  and  clinch  his  horny  fist,  as  he 
marched  straightway  up  to  the  doomed  offendei*, 
fiercely  denounced  his  dishonesty,  and  violently 
demanded  redress  ?  Ah !  then  and  there  was 
hurrying  to  and  fro,  and  eagerness  and  delight  on 
every  countenance,  and  a  ring  formed,  and  the 
prospect  of  a  lovely  "  row,"  —  and  I  did  it ;  but 
a  police-officer  sprang  up,  full-armed,  from  some- 
where underground,  and  undid  it  all,  and  enforced 
a  reluctant  peace. 

And  so  we  are  at  Saratoga.  Now,  of  all  places 
to  stay  at  in  the  summer-time,  Saratoga  is  the 
very  last  one  to  choose.  It  may  have  attractions 

3* 


58  GALA-DAYS. 

in  winter ;  but,  if  one  wishes  to  rest  and  change 
and  root  down  and  shoot  up  and  branch  out,  he 
might  as  well  take  lodgings  in  the  water-wheel  of 
a  saw-mill.  The  uniformity  and  variety  will  be 
much  the  same.  It  is  all  a  noiseless  kind  of  din, 
narrow  and  intense.  There  is  nothing  in  Sara- 
toga nor  of  Saratoga  to  see  or  to  hear  or  to  feel. 
They  tell  you  of  a  lake.  You  jam  into  an  omni- 
bus and  ride  four  miles.  Then  you  step  into  a 
cockle-shell  and  circumnavigate  a  pond,  so  small 
that  it  almost  makes  you  dizzy  to  sail  around  it. 
This  is  the  lake,  —  a  very  nice  thing  as  far  as  it 
goes  ;  but  when  it  has  to  be  constantly  on  duty 
as  the  natural  scenery  of  the  whole  surrounding 
countiy,  it  is  putting  altogether  too  fine  a  point  on 
it.  The  picturesque  people  will  inform  you  of  an 
Indian  encampment.  You  go  to  see  it,  thinking 
of  the  forest  primeval,  and  expecting  to  be  trans- 
ported back  to  tomahawks,  scalps,  and  forefathers  ; 
but  you  return  without  them,  and  that  is  all.  I 
never  heard  of  anybody's  going  anywhere.  In 
fact  there  did  not  seem  to  be  anywhere  to  go. 
Any  suggestion  of  mine  to  strike  out  into  the 
champaign  was  frowned  down  in  the  severest 
manner.  As  far  as  I  could  see,  nobody  ever  did 
anything.  There  never  was  any  plan  on  foot. 
Nothing  was  ever  stirring.  People  sat  on  the 
piazza  and  sewed.  They  went  to  the  springs,  and 
the  springs  are  dreadful.  They  bubble  up  salts 
and  senna.  I  never  knew  anything  that  pretended 


GALA-DAYS.  59 

to  be  water  that  was  half  as  bad.  It  has  no  one 
redeeming  quality.  It  is  bitter.  It  is  greasy. 
Every  spring  is  worse  than  the  last,  whichever 
end  you  begin  at.  They  told  apocryphal  stories 
of  people's  drinking  sixteen  glasses  before  break- 
fast ;  and  yet  it  may  have  been  true  ;  for,  if  one 
could  bring  himself  to  the  point  of  drinking  one 
glass  of  it,  I  should  suppose  it  would  have  taken 
such  a  force  to  enable  him  to  do  it  that  he  might 
go  on  drinking  indefinitely,  from  the  mere  action 
of  the  original  impulse.  I  should  think  one  dose  of 
it  would  render  a  person  permanently  indifferent 
to  savors,  and  make  him,  like  Mithridates,  poison- 
proof.  Nevertheless,  people  go  to  the  springs 
and  drink.  Then  they  go  to  the  bowling-alleys 
and  bowl.  In  the  evening,  if  you  are  hilariously 
inclined,  you  can  make  the  tour  of  the  hotels.  In 
each  one  you  see  a  large  and  brilliantly  lighted 
parlor,  along  the  four  sides  of  which  are  women 
sitting,  solemn  and  stately,  in  rows  three  deep, 
with  a  man  dropped  in  here  and  there,  about  as 
thick  as  periods  on  a  page,  very  young  or  very  old 
or  in  white  cravats.  A  piano  or  a  band  or  some- 
thing that  can  make  a  noise  makes  it  at  intervals 
at  one  end  of  the  room.  They  all  look  as  if  they 
were  waiting  for  something,  but  nothing  in  par- 
ticular happens.  Sometimes,  after  the  mountain 
has  labored  awhile,  some  little  mouse  of  a  boy  and 
girl  will  get  up,  execute  an  antic  or  two  and  sit 
down  again,  when  everything  relapses  into  its 


60  GALA-DAYS. 

original  solemnity.  At  very  long  intervals  some- 
body walks  across  the  floor.  There  is  a  moderate 
fluttering  of  fans  and  an  occasional  whisper.  Ex- 
pectation interspersed  with  gimcracks  seems  to  be 
the  programme.  The  greater  part  of  the  dancing 
that  I  saw  was  done  by  boys  and  girls.  It  was 
pretty  and  painful.  Nobody  dances  so  well  as 
children  ;  no  grace  is  equal  to  their  grace  ;  but  to 
go  into  a  hotel  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  see 
little  things,  eight,  ten,  twelve  years  old,  who 
ought  to  be  in  bed  and  asleep,  tricked  out  in 
flounces  and  ribbons  and  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  ballet-girls,  and  dancing  in  the  centre  of  a 
hollow  square  of  strangers,  —  I  call  it  murder 
in  the  first  degree.  What  can  mothers  be  think- 
ing of  to  abuse  their  children  so  ?  Children  are 
naturally  healthy  and  simple ;  why  should  they 
be  spoiled  ?  They  will  have  to  plunge  into  the 
world  full  soon  enough  ;  why  should  the  world 
be  plunged  into  them  ?  Physically,  mentally, 
and  morally,  the  innocents  are  massacred.  Night 
after  night  I  saw  the  same  hildren  led  out  to 
the  slaughter,  and  as  I  looked  I  saw  their  round, 
red  cheeks  grow  thin  and  white,  their  delicate 
nerves  lose  tone  and  tension,  their  brains  be- 
come feeble  and  flabby,  their  minds  flutter  out 
weakly  in  muslin  and  ribbons,  their  vanity  kindled 
by  injudicious  admiration,  the  sweet  child-uncon- 
sciousness withering  away  in  the  glare  of  indis- 
criminate gazing,  the  innocence  and  simplicity  and 


GALA-DAYS.  61 

naturalness  and  childlikeness  swallowed  up  in  a 
seething  whirlpool  of  artificialness,  all  the  fine, 
golden  butterfly-dust  of  modesty  and  delicacy  and 
retiring  girlhood  ruthlessly  rubbed  off  forever  be- 
fore girlhood  had  even  reddened  from  the  dim 
dawn  of  infancy.  Oh !  it  is  cruel  to  sacrifice 
children  so.  What  can  atone  for  a  lost  child- 
hood ?  What  can  be  given  in  recompense  for 
the  ethereal,  spontaneous,  sharply  defined,  new, 
delicious  sensations  of  a  sheltered,  untainted,  open- 
ing life  ? 

Thoroughly  worked  into  a  white  heat  of  indig- 
nation, we  leave  the  babes  in  the  wood  to  be 
despatched  by  their  ruffian  relatives,  and  go  to 
another  hotel.  A  larger  parlor,  larger  rows,  but 
still  three  deep  and  solemn.  A  tall  man,  with  a 
face  in  which  melancholy  seems  to  be  giving  way 
to  despair,  a  man  most  proper  for  an  undertaker, 
but  palpably  out  of  place  in  a  drawing-room, 
walks  up  and  down  incessantly,  but  noiselessly,  in 
a  persistent  endeavor  to  bring  out  a  dance.  Now 
he  fastens  upon  a  newly  arrived  man.  Now  he 
plants  himself  before  a  bench  of  misses.  You 
can  hear  the  low  rumble  of  his  exhortation  and  the 
tittering  replies.  After  a  persevering  course  of 
entreaty  and  persuasion,  a  set  is  drafted,  the  music 
galvanizes,  and  the  dance  begins. 

I  like  to  see  people  do  with  their  might  whatso- 
ever their  hands  or  their  tongues  or  their  feet  find 
to  do.  A  half-and-half  performance  of  the  right  is 


62  GALA-DAYS. 

just  about  as  mischievous  as  the  perpetration  of 
the  wrong.  It  is  vacillation,  hesitation,  lack  of 
will,  feebleness  of  purpose,  imperfect  execution, 
that  works  ill  in  all  life.  Be  monarch  of  all  you 
survey.  If  a  woman  decides  to  do  her  own  house- 
work, let  her  go  in  royally  among  her  pots  and 
kettles,  and  set  everything  a-stewing  and  baking 
and  broiling  and  boiling,  as  a  queen  might.  If  she 
decides  not  to  do  housework,  but  to  superintend 
its  doing,  let  her  say  to  her  servant,  "  Go,"  and  he 
goeth,  to  another,  "  Come,"  and  he  cometh,  to  a 
third,  "  Do  this,"  and  he  doeth  it,  and  not  potter 
about.  So,  when  girls  get  themselves  up  and  go 
to  Saratoga  for  a  regular  campaign,  let  their 
bearing  be  soldierly.  Let  them  be  gay  with  aban- 
donment. Let  them  take  hold  of  it  as  if  they 
liked  it.  I  do  not  affect  the  word  flirtation,  but 
the  thing  itself  is  not  half  so  criminal  as  one  would 
think  from  the  animadversions  visited  upon  it. 
Of  course,  a  deliberate  setting  yourself  to  work  to 
make  some  one  fall  in  love  with  you,  for  the  mere 
purpose  of  showing  your  power,  is  abominable,  — 
or  would  be,  if  anybody  ever  did  it ;  but  I  do 
not  suppose  it  ever  was  done,  except  in  fifth-rate 
novels.  What  I  mean  is,  that  it  is  entertaining, 
harmless,  and  beneficial  for  young  people  to  amuse 
themselves  with  each  other  to  the  top  of  their 
bent,  if  their  bent  is  a  natural  and  right  one.  A 
few  hearts  may  suffer  accidental,  transient  injury ; 
but  hearts  are  like  limbs,  all  the  stronger  for 


GALA-DAYS.  ±*  63 

being  broken.  Besides,  where  one  man  or  wo- 
man is  injured  by  loving  too  much,  nine  hun- 
dred and  ninety-nine  die  the  death  from  not 
loving  enough. 

But  these  Saratoga  girls  did  neither  one  thing 
nor  another.  They  dressed  themselves  in  their 
best,  making  a  point  of  it,  and  failed.  They  as- 
sembled themselves  together  of  set  purpose  to  be 
lively,  and  they  were  infectiously  dismal.  They 
did  not  dress  well :  one  looked  rustic ;  another 
was  dowdyish ;  a  third  was  over-fine ;  a  fourth 
was  insignificant.  Their  bearing  was  not  good,  in 
the  main.  They  danced,  and  whispered,  and 
laughed,  and  looked  like  milkmaids.  They  had 
no  style,  no  figure.  Their  shoulders  were  high, 
and  their  chests  were  flat,  and  they  were  one-sided, 
and  they  stooped,  —  all  of  which  would  have  been 
of  no  account,  if  they  had  only  been  unconsciously 
enjoying  themselves:  but  they  consciously  were 
not.  It  is  possible  that  they  thought  they  were 
happy,  but  I  knew  better.  You  are  never  happy, 
unless  you  are  master  of  the  situation ;  and  they 
were  not.  They  endeavored  to  appear  at  ease,  — 
a  thing  which  people  who  are  at  ease  never  do. 
They  looked  as  if  they  had  all  their  lives  been 
meaning  to  go  to  Saratoga,  and  now  they  had  got 
the're  and  were  determined  not  to  betray  any  un- 
wontedness.  It  was  not  the  timid,  eager,  delight- 
ed, fascinating,  graceful  awkwardness  of  a  new 
young  girl ;  it  was  not  the  careless,  hearty,  whole- 


64  ~    GALA-DAYS. 

souled  enjoyment  of  an  experienced  girl ;  it  was 
not  the  natural,  indifferent,  imperial  queening  it 
of  an  acknowledged  monai'ch :  but  something  that 
caught  hold  of  the  hem  of  the  garment  of  them  all. 
It  was  they  with  the  sheen  damped  off.  So  it  was 
not  imposing.  I  could  pick  you  up  a  dozen  girls 
straight  along,  right  out  of  the  pantries  and  the 
butteries,  right  up  from  the  washing-tubs  and  the 
sewing-machines,  who  should  be  abundantly  able 
to  "  hoe  their  row "  with  them  anywhere.  In 
short,  I  was  extremely  disappointed.  I  expected 
to  see  the  high  fashion,  the  very  birth  and  breed- 
ing, the  cream  cheese  of  the  country,  and  it  was 
skim-milk.  If  that  is  birth,  one  can  do  quite  as 
well  without  being  born  at  all.  Occasionally  you 
would  see  a  girl  with  gentle  blood  in  her  veins, 
whether  it  were  butcher-blood  or  banker-blood,  but 
she  only  made  the  prevailing  plebsiness  more  strik- 
ing. Now  I  maintain  that  a  woman  ought  to  be 
very  handsome  or  very  clever,  or  else  she  ought  to 
go  to  work  and  do  something.  Beauty  is  of  itself 
a  divine  gift  and  adequate.  "  Beauty  is  its  own 
excuse  for  being  "  anywhere.  It  ought  not  to  be 
fenced  in  or  monopolized,  any  more  than  a  statue 
or  a  mountain.  It  ought  to  be  free  and  common, 
a  benediction  to  all  weary  wayfarers.  It  can  never 
be  profaned ;  for  it  veils  itself  from  the  unapprecia- 
tive  eye,  and  shines  only  upon  its  worshippers. 
So  a  clever  woman,  whether  she  be  a  painter  or  a 
teacher  or  a  dress-maker,  —  if  she  really  has  an 


GALA-DA  YS.  65 

object  in  life,  a  career,  she  is  safe.  She  is  a  power. 
She  commands  a  realm.  She  owns  a  world.  She 
is  bringing  things  to  bear.  Let  her  alone.  But 
it  is  a  very  dangerous  and  a  very  melancholy  thing 
for  common  women  to  be  "  lying  on  their  oars " 
long  at  a  time.  Some  of  these  were,  I  suppose, 
what  Winthrop  calls  "business-women,  fighting 
their  way  out  of  vulgarity  into  style."  The  pro- 
cess is  rather  uninteresting,  but  the  result  may  be 
glorious.  Yet  a  good  many  of  them  were  good 
honest,  kind,  common  girls,  only  demoralized  by 
long  lying  around  in  a  waiting  posture.  It  had 
taken  the  fire  and  sparkle  out  of  them.  They 
were  not  in  a  healthy  state.  They  were  de- 
graded, contracted,  flaccid.  They  did  not  hold 
themselves  high.  They  knew  that  in  a  market- 
able point  of  view  there  was  a  frightful  glut  of 
women.  The  usually  small  ratio  of  men  was  un- 
usually diminished  by  the  absence  of  those  who 
had  gone  to  the  war,  and  of  those  who,  as  was 
currently  reported,  were  ashamed  that  they  had 
not  gone.  A  few  available  men  had  it  all  their 
own  way ;  the  women  were  on  the  lookout  for 
them,  instead  of  being  themselves  looked  out  for. 
They  talked  about  "gentlemen,"  and  being  "  com- 
panionable to  g-ew-tlemen,"  and  who  was  "  fasci- 
nating to  g-ew-tlemen,"  till  the  u  grand  old  name  " 
became  a  nuisance.  There  was  an  under-current 
of  unsated  coquetry.  I  $on't  suppose  they  were 
any  sillier  than  the  rest  of  us ;  but  when  our  silli- 


66  GALA-DA  YS. 

ness  is  mixed  in  with  housekeeping  and  sewing 
and  teaching  and  returning  visits,  it  passes  off 
harmless.  When  it  is  stripped  of  all  these  modi- 
fiers, however,  and  goes  off  exposed  to  Saratoga, 
and  melts  in  with  a  hundred  other  sillinesses,  it 
makes  a  great  show. 

No,  I  don't  like  Saratoga.  I  don't  think  it  is 
wholesome.  No  place  can  be  healthy  that  keeps 
up  such  an  unmitigated  dressing. 

"  Where  do  you  walk  ?  "  I  asked  an  artless  little 
lady. 

"  O,  almost  always  on  the  long  piazza.  It  is  so 
clean  there,  and  we  don't  like  to  soil  our  dresses." 

Now  I  ask  if  girls  could  ever  get  into  that  state 
in  the  natural  course  of  things !  It  is  the  result 
of  bad  habits.  They  cease  to  care  for  things 
which  they  ought  to  like  to  do,  and  they  devote 
themselves  to  what  ought  to  be  only  an  incident. 
People  dress  in  their  best  without  break.  They 
go  to  the  springs  before  breakfast  in  shining  rai- 
ment, and  they  go  into  the  parlor  after  supper 
in  shining  raiment,  and  it  is  shine,  shine,  shine, 
all  the  way  between,  and  a  different  shine  each 
time.  You  may  well  suppose  that  I  was  like 
an  owl  among  birds  of  Paradise,  for  what  little 
finery  I  had  was  in  my  (eminently)  travelling- 
trunk  :  yet,  though  it  was  but  a  dory,  compared 
with  the  Noah's  arks  that  drove  up  every  day, 
I  felt  that,  if  I  could  only  once  get  inside  of  it, 
I  could  make  things  fly  to  some  purpose.  Like 


GALA-DAYS.  67 

poor  Rabette,  I  would  show  the  city  that  the 
country  too  could  wear  clothes  !  I  never  walked 
down  Broadway  without  seeing  a  dozen  white 
trunks,  and  every  white  trunk  that  I  saw  I  was 
fully  convinced  was  mine,  if  I  could  only  get  at 
it.  By  and  by  mine  came,  and  I  blossomed.  I 
arrayed  myself  for  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and 
everything  else  that  came  up,  and  was,  as  the 
poet  says, — 

"  Prodigious  in  change, 
And  endless  in  range,"  — 

for  I  would  have  scorned  not  to  be  as  good  as  the 
best.  The  result  was,  that  in  three  days  I  touched 
bottom.  But  then  we  went  away,  and  my  reputa- 
tion was  saved.  I  don't  believe  anybody  ever  did 
a  larger  business  on  a  smaller  capital ;  but  I  put  a 
bold  face  on  it.  I  cherish  the  hope  that  nobody 
suspected  I  could  not  go  on  in  that  ruinous  way 
all  summer,  —  I,  who  in  three  days  had  mustered 
into  service  every  dress  and  sash  and  ribbon  and 
rag  that  I  had  had  in  three  years  or  expected 
to  have  in  three  more.  But  I  never  will,  if  I  can 
help  it,  hold  my  head  down  where  other  people 
are  holding  their  heads  up. 

I  would  not  be  understood  as  decrying  or  de- 
preciating dress.  It  is  a  duty  as  well  as  a  delight. 
Mrs.  Madison  is  reported  to  have  said  that  she 
would  never  forgive  a  young  lady  who  did  not 
dress  to  please,  or  one  who  seemed  pleased  with 
her  dress.  And  not  only  young  ladies,  but  old 


68  GALA-DA  YS. 

ladies  and  old  gentlemen,  and  everybody,  ought  to 
make  their  dress  a  concord  and  not  a  discord. 
But  Saratoga  is  pitched  on  a  perpetual  falsetto, 
and  stuns  you.  One  becomes  sated  with  an  inter- 
minable piece  de  resistance  of  full  dress.  At  the 
seaside  you  bathe ;  at  the  mountains  you  put  on 
stout  boots  and  coarse  frocks  and  go  a-fishing ;  but 
Saratoga  never  "  lets  up,". —  if  I  may  be  par- 
doned the  phrase.  Consequently,  you  see  much  of 
crinoline  and  little  of  character.  You  have  to  get 
at  the  human  nature  just  as  Thoreau  used  to  get 
at  bird-nature  and  fish-nature  and  turtle-nature, 
by  sitting  perfectly  still  in  one  place  and  waiting 
patiently  till  it  comes  out.  You  see  more  of  the 
reality  of  people  in  a  single  day's  tramp  than  in 
twenty  days  of  guarded  monotone.  Now  I  can- 
not conceive  o'f  any  reason  why  people  should  go 
to  Saratoga,  except  to  see  people.  True,  as  a 
general  thing,  they  are  the  last  'objects  you  desire 
to  see,  when  you  are  summering.  But  if  one  has 
been  cooped  up  in  the  house  or  blocked  up  in  the 
country  during  the  nine  months  of  our  Northern 
winter,  he  may  have  a  mighty  hunger  and  thirst, 
when  he  is  thawed  out,  to  see  human  faces  and 
hear  human  voices  ;  but  even  then  Saratoga  is  not 
the  place  to  go  to,  on  account  of  this  very  arti- 
ficialness.  By  artificial  I  do  not  mean  deceitful. 
I  saw  nobody  but  nice  people  there,  smooth,  kind, 
and  polite.  By  artificial  I  mean  wrought  up. 
You  don't  get  at  the  heart  of  things.  Artificial- 


GALA-DAYS.  69 

ness  spreads  and  spans  all  with  a  crystal  barrier, 
—  invisible,  but  palpable.  Nothing  was  left  to 
grow  and  go  at  its  own  sweet  will.  The  very 
springs  were  paved  and  pavilioned.  For  green 
fields,  and  welling  fountains  and  a  possibility  of 
brooks,  which  one  expects  from  the  name,  you 
found  a  Greek  temple,  and  a  pleasure-ground, 
graded  and  grassed  and  pathed  like  a  cemetery, 
wherein  nymphs  trod  daintily  in  elaborate  morn- 
ing-costume. Everything  took  pattern  and  was 
elaborate.  Nothing  was  left  to  the  imagination, 
the  taste,  the  curiosity.  A  bland,  smooth,  smiling 
surface  baffled  and  blinded  you,  and  threatened 
profanity.  Now  profanity  is  wicked  and  vulgar  ; 
but  if  you  listen  to  the  reeds  next  summer,  I  am 
not  sure  that  .you  will  not  hear  them  whispering, 
"  Thunder !  " 

For  the  restorative  qualities  of  Saratoga  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  I  was  well  when  I  went  there  ; 
nor  did  my  experience  ever  furnish  me  with  any 
disease  that  I  should  consider  worse  than  an  inter- 
mittent attack  of  her  spring  waters.  But  what- 
ever it  may  do  for  the  body,  I  do  not  believe  it  is 
good  for  the  soul.  I  do  not  believe  that  such 
places,  such  scenes,  such  a  fashion  of  life  ever 
nourishes  a  vigorous  womanhood  or  manhood. 
Taken  homoeopathically,  it  may  be  harmless  ;  but 
if  it  become  a  habit,  a  necessity,  it  must  vitiate, 
enervate,  destroy.  Men  can  stand  it,  for  the  sea- 
breezes  and  the  mountain-breezes  may  have  full 


70  GALA-DAYS. 

sweep  through  their  life ;   but  women  cannot,  for 
they  just  go  home  and  live  air-tight. 

If  the  railroad-men  at  Saratoga  tell  you  that 
you  can  go  straight  from  there  to  the  foot  of  JLake 
George,  don't  you  believe  a  word  of  it.  Perhaps 
you  can,  and  perhaps  you  cannot ;  but  you  are  not 
any  more  likely  to  "  can  "  for  their  saying  so.  We 
left  Saratoga  for  Fort-William-Henry  Hotel  in 
full  faith  of  an  afternoon  ride  and  a  sunset  arri- 
val-, based  on  repeated  and  unhesitating  assurances 
to  that  effect.  Instead  of  which,  we  went  a  few 
miles,  and  were  then. dumped  into  a  blackberry- 
patch,  where  we  were  informed  that  we  must  wait 
seven  hours.  So  much  for  the  afternoon  ride 
through  summer  fields  and  "  Sunset  on  Lake 
George,"  from  the  top  of  a  coach.  But  I  made 
no  unmanly  laments,  for  we  were  out  of  Saratoga, 
and  that  was  happiness.  We  were  among  cows 
and  barns  and  homely  rail-fences,  and  that  was 
comfort ;  so  we  strolled  contentedly  through  the 
pasture,  found  a  river,  —  I  believe  it  was  the 
Hudson  ;  at  any  rate,  Halicarnassus  said  so, 
though  I  don't  imagine  he  knew  ;  but  he  would 
take  oath  it  was  Acheron  rather  than  own  up  to 
ignorance  on  any  point  whatever,  —  watched  the 
canal-boats  and  boatmen  go  down,  marvelled  at 
the  arbor-vita?  trees  growing  wild  along  the  riv- 
er-banks, green,  hale,  stately,  and  symmetrical, 
against  the  dismal  mental  backs-round  of  two  little 


GALA-DAYS.  71 

consumptive  shoots  bolstered  up  in  our  front  yard 
at  home,  and  dying  daily,  notwithstanding  per- 
sistent and  affectionate  nursing  with  "  flannels  and 
rum,"  and  then  we  went  back  to  the  blackberry- 
station  and  inquired  whether  there  was  nothing 
celebrated  in  the  vicinity  to  which  visitors  of  re- 
ceived Orthodox  creed  should  dutifully  pay  their 
respects,  and  were  gratified  to  learn  that  we  were 
but  a  few  miles  from  Jane  McCrea  and  her  Indian 
murderers.  Was  a  carriage  procurable  ?  Well, 
yes,  if  the  ladies  would  be  willing  to  go  in  that. 
It  was  n't  very  smart,  but  it  would  take  'em  safe, 
—  as  if  "  the  ladies  "  would  have  raised  any  ob- 
jections to  going  in  a  wheelbarrow,  had  it  been 
necessary,  and  so  we  bundled  in.  The  hills  were 
steep,  and  our  horse,  the  property  of  an  adven- 
titious by-stander,  was  of  the  Rosinante  breed ; 
but  we  were  in  no  hurry,  seeing  that  the  only 
thing  awaiting  us  this  side  the  sunset  was  a  black- 
berry-patch without  any  blackberries,  and  we 
walked  up  hill  and  scraped  down,  till  we  got  into 
a  lane  which  somebody  told  us  led  to  the  Fort, 
from  which  the  village,  Fort  Edward,  takes  its 
name.  But,  instead  of  a  fort,  the  lane  ran  full 
tilt  against  a  pair  of  bars. 

"  Now  we  are  lost,"  I  said,  sententiously. 

"  A  gem  of  countless  price,"  pursued  Halicar- 
nassus,  who  never  quotes  poetry  except  to  de- 
stroy my  equilibrium. 

"  How   long  will  it  be   profitable    to   remain 


72  GALA-DAYS. 

here  ?  "  asked  Grande,  when  we  had  sat  immova- 
ble and  speechless  for  the  space  of  five  minutes. 

"  There  seems  to  be  nowhere  else  to  go.  We 
have  got  to  the  end,"  said  Halicarnassus,  roaming 
as  to  his  eyes  over  into  the  wheat-field  beyond. 

"  We  might  turn,"  suggested  the  Anakim,  look- 
ing bright. 

"  How  can  you  turn  a  horse  in  this  knitting- 
needle  of  a  lane  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Halicarnassus,  dubi- 
ously, "  unless  I  take  him  up  in  my  arms,  and  set 
him  down  with  his  head  the  other  way,"  —  and 
immediately  turned  him  deftly  in  a  corner  about 
half  as  large  as  the  wagon. 

The  next  lane  we  came  to  was  the  right  one, 
and  being  narrow,  rocky,  and  rough,  we  left  our 
carriage  and  walked. 

A  whole  volume  of  the  peaceful  and  prosperous 
history  of  our  beloved  country  could  be  read  in 
•the  fact  that  the  once  belligerent,  life-saving, 
death-dealing  fort  was  represented  by  a  hen-coop  ; 
yet  I  was  disappointed.  I  was  hungry  for  a  ruin, 
—  some  visible  hint  of  the  past.  Such  is  human 
nature,  —  ever  prone  to  be  more  impressed  by  a 
disappointment  of  its  own  momentary  gratification 
than  by  the  most  obvious  well-being  of  a  nation  ; 
but,  glad  or  sorry,  of  Fort  Edward  was  not  left 
one  stone  upon  another.  Several  single  stones  lay 
about,  promiscuous  rather  than  belligerent.  Flag- 
staff and  palisades  lived  only  in  a  few  straggling 


GALA-DAYS.  73 

bean-poles.  For  the  heavy  booming  of  cannon 
rose  the  "  quauk  !  "  of  ducks  and  the  cackling  of 
hens.  We  went  to  the  spot  which  tradition  points 
out  as  the  place  where  Jane  McCrea  met  her 
death.  River  flowed,  and  raftsmen  sang  below  ; 
women  stood  at  their  washing-fllbs,  and  white- 
headed  children  stared  at  us  from  above ;  nor  from 
the  unheeding  river  or  the  forgetful  woods  came 
shriek  or  cry  or  faintest  wail  of  pain. 

When  we  were  little,  and  geography  and  his- 
tory were  but  printed  words  on  white  paper,  not 
places  and  events,  Jane  McCrea  was  to  us  no 
suffering  woman,  but  a  picture  of  a  low-necked, 
long-skirted,  scanty  dress,  long  hair  grasped  by  a 
half-naked  Indian,  and  two  unnatural-looking 
hands  raised  in  entreaty.  It  was  interesting  as  a 
picture,  but  it  excited  no  pity,  no  horror,  because 
it  was  only  a  picture.  We  never  saw  women 
dressed  in  that  style.  We  knew  that  women  did 
not  take  journeys  through  woods  without  bonnet 
or  shawl,  and  we  spread  a  veil  of  ignorant,  indif- 
ferent incredulity  over  the  whole.  But  as  we 
grow  up,  printed  words  take  on  new  life.  The 
latent  fire  in  them  lights  up  and  glows.  The 
mystic  words  throb  with  vital  heat,  and  burn  down 
into  our  souls  to  an  answering  fire.  As  we  stand, 
on  this  soft  summer  day,  by  the  old  tree  which 
tradition  declares  to  have  witnessed  that  fateful 
scene,  we  go  back  into  a  summer  long  ago,  but 
fair,  and  just  like  this.  Jane  McCrea  is  no  longer 


74  GALA-DAYS. 

a  myth,  but  a  young  girl,  blooming  and  beautiful 
with  the  roses  of  her  seventeen  years.  Farther 
back  still,  we  see  an  old  man's  darling,  little  Jenny 
of  the  Manse,  a  light-hearted  child,  with  sturdy 
Scotch  blood  leaping  in  her  young  veins,  —  then,  a 
tender  orphan,  ^sheltered  by  a  brother's  care, — 
then  a  gentle  maiden,  light-hearted  no  longer, 
heavy-freighted,  rather,  but  with  a  priceless  bur- 
den,—  a  happy  girl,  to  whom  love  calls  with 
stronger  voice  than  brother's  blood,  stronger  even 
than  life.  Yonder  in  the  woods  lurk  wily  and 
wary  foes.  Death  with  unspeakable  horrors  lies 
in  ambush  there ;  but  yonder  also  stands  the  sol- 
dier lover,  and  possible  greeting,  after  long,  weary 
absence,  is  there.  What  fear  can  master  that 
overpowering  hope  ?  Estrangement  of  families, 
political  disagreement,  a  separated  loyalty,  all  melt 
away,  are  fused  together s  in  the  warmth  of  girl- 
ish love.  Taxes,  representation,  what  things  are 
these  to  come  between  two  hearts  ?  No  Tory,  no 
traitor  is  her  lover,  but  her  own  brave  hero  and 
true  knight.  Woe !  woe !  the  eager  dream  is 
broken  by  mad  war-whoops  !  alas  !  to  those  fierce 
wild  men,  what  is  love,  or  loveliness  ?  Pride, 
and  passion,  and  the  old  accursed  hunger  for  gold 
flame  up  in  their  savage  breasts.  Wrathful,  loath- 
some fingers  clutch  the  long,  fair  hair  that  even 
the  fingers  of  love  have  caressed  but  with  reverent 
half-touch,  —  and  love  and  hope  and  life  go  out 
in  one  dread  moment  of  horror  and  despair.  Now, 


GALA-DAYS.  75 

through  the  reverberations  of  more  than  fourscore 
years,  through  all  the  tempest-rage  of  a  war  more 
awful  than  that,  and  fraught,  we  hope,  with  a 
grander  joy,  a  clear,  young  voice,  made  sharp  with 
agony,  rings  through  the  shuddering  woods,  cleaves 
up  through  the  summer  sky,  ancf  wakens  in  every 
heart  a  thrill  of  speechless  pain.  Along  these 
peaceful  banks  I  see  a  bowed  form  walking,  youth 
in  his  years,  but  deeper  furrows  in  his  face  than 
age  can  plough,  stricken  down  from  the  heights  of 
his  ambition  and  desire,  all  the  vigor  and  fire  of 
manhood  crushed  and  quenched  beneath  the  hor- 
ror of  one  fearful  memory. 

Sweet  summer  sky,  bending  above  us  soft  and 
saintly,  beyond  your  blue  depths  is  there  not 
Heaven  ? 

"  We  may  as  well  give  DoKbin  his  oats  here," 
said  Halicarnassus. 

We  had  brought  a  few  in  a  bag  for  luncheon, 
thinking  it  might  help  him  over  the  hills.  So  the 
wagon  was  rummaged,  the  bag  brought  to  light, 
and  I  was  sent  to  one  "of  the  nearest  houses  to  get 
something  for  him  to  eat  out  of.  I  did  not  think 
to  ask  what  particular  vessel  to  inquire  for;  but 
after  I  had  knocked,  I  decided  upon  a  meat-platter 
or  a  pudding-dish,  and  with  the  good  woman's 
permission  finally  took  both,  that  Halicarnassus 
might  have  his  choice. 

"  Which  is  the  best  ?  "  I  asked,  holding  them 
up. 


76  GALA-DAYS. 

He  surveyed  th'em  carefully,  and  then  said,  — 

"  Now  run  right  back  and  get  a  tumbler  for 
him  to  drink  out  of,  and  a  teaspoon  to  feed  him 
with." 

I  started  in  good  faith,  from  a  mere  habit  of 
unquestioning  obedience,  but  with  the  fourth  step 
my  reason  returned  to  me,  and  I  returned  to  Hali- 
carnassus  and  —  kicked  him.  That  sounds  very 
dreadful  and  horrible,  and  it  is,  if  you  are  thinking 
of  a  great,  brutal,  brogan  kick,  such  as  a  stupid 
farmer  gives  to  his  patient  oxen ;  but  not,  if  you 
mean  only  a  delicate,  compact,  penetrative  nudge 
•with  the  toe  of  a  tight-fitting  gaiter,  —  addressed 
rather  to  the  conscience  than  the  sole,  to  the 
sensibilities  rather  than  the  senses.  The  kick 
masculine  is  coarse,  boorish,  unmitigated,  predi- 
cable  only  of  Calibans.  The  kick  feminine  is 
expressive,  suggestive,  terse,  electric,  —  an  indis- 
pensable instrument  in  domestic  discipline,  as  wo- 
men will  bear  me  witness,  and  not  at  all  incom- 
patible with  beauty,  grace,  and  amiability.  But, 
right  or  wrong,  after  all  this  interval  of  rest  and 
reflection,  in  full  view  of  all  the  circumstances, 
my  only  regret  is  that  I  did  not  kick  him  harder. 

"  Now  go  and  fetch  your  own  tools  !  "  I  cried, 
shaking  off  the  yoke  of  servitude.  "  I  won't  be 
your  stable-boy -any  longer  !  " 

Then,  perforce,  he  gathered  up  the  crockery, 
marched  off  in  disgrace,  and  came  back  with  a 
molasses-hogshead,  or  a  wash-tub,  or  some  such 


GALA-DAYS.  77 

overgrown  mastodon,  to  turn  his  sixpenny-worth 
of  oats  into. 

Having  fed  our  mettlesome  steed,  the  next  thing 
was  to  water  him.  The  Anakim  remembered  to 
have  seen  a  pump  with  a  trough  somewhere, 
and  they  proposed  to  reconnoitre  while  we  should 
"  wait  by  the  wagon  "  their  return.  No,  I  said 
we  would  drive  on  to  the  pump,  while  they 
walked. 

"  You  drive  !  "  ejaculated  Halicarnassus,  con- 
temptuously. 

Now  I  do  not,  as  a  general  thing,  have  an  over- 
weening respect  for  female  teamsters.  There  is 
but  one  woman  in  the  world  to  whose  hands  I 
confide  the  reins  and  my  bones  with  entire  equa- 
nimity ;  and  she  says,  that,  when  she  is  driving, 
she  dreads  of  all  things  to  meet  a  driving  woman. 
If  a  man  said  this,  it  might  be  set  down  to  preju- 
dice. I  don't  make  any  account  of  Halicarnassus's 
assertion,  that,  if  two  women  walking  in  the  road 
on  a  muddy  day  meet  a  carriage,  they  never  keep 
together,  but  invariably  one  runs  to  the  right  and 
one  to  the  left,  so  that  the  driver  cannot  favor 
them  at  all,  but  has  to  crowd  between  them,  and 
drive  both  into  the  mud.  That  is  palpably  inter- 
ested false  witness.  He  thinks  it  is  fine  fun  to 
push  women  into  the  mud,  and  frames  such  flimsy 
excuses.  But  as  a  woman's  thoughts  about  wo- 
men, this  woman's  utterances  are  deserving  of 
attention  ;  and  she  says  that  women  are  not  to  be 


78  GALA-DAYS. 

depended  upon.  She  is  never  sure  that  they  will 
not  turn  out  on  the  wrong  side.  They  are  ner- 
vous ;  they  are  timid ;  they  are  unreasoning ;  they 
are  reckless.  They  will  give  a  horse  a  discon- 
nected, an  utterly  inconsequent  "  cut,"  making 
him  spring,  ,to  the  jeopardy  of  their  own  and 
others'  safety.  They  are  not  concentrative,  and 
they  are  not  infallibly  courteous,  as  men  are.  I 
remember  I  was  driving  with  her  once  between 
Newburyport  and  Boston.  It  was  getting  late, 
and  we  we"e  very  desirous  to  reach  our  destination 
before  nightfall.  Ahead  of  us  a  woman  and  a  girl 
were  jogging  along  in  a  country  wagon.  As  we 
wished  to  go  much  faster  than  they,  we  turned 
aside  to  pass  them ;  but  just  as  we  were  well 
abreast,  the  woman  started  up  her  horse,  and 
he  skimmed  over  the  ground  like  a  bird.  We 
laughed,  and  followed,  well  content.  But  after  he 
had  gone  perhaps  an  eighth  of  a  mile,  his  speed 
slackened  down  to  the  former  jog-trot.  Three 
times  we  attempted  to  pass  before  we  really  com- 
prehended the  fact  that  that  infamous  woman  was 
deliberately  detaining  and  annoying  us.  The 
third  time,  when  we  had  so  nearly  passed  them 
that  our  horse  was  turning  into  the  road  again, 
she  struck  hers  up  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
that  her  wheels  almost  grazed  ours.  Of  course, 
understanding  her  game,  we  ceased  the  attempt, 
having  no  taste  for  horse-racing ;  and  nearly  all 
the  way  from  Newburyport  to  Rowley,  she  kept 


GALA-DAYS.  79 

up  that  brigandry,  jogging  on,  and  forcing  us  to 
jog  on,  neither  going  ahead  herself  nor  suffering 
us  to  do  so,  —  a  perfect  and  most  provoking  dog 
in  a  manger.  Her  girl-associate  would  look  be- 
hind every  now  and  then  to  take  observations, 
and  I  mentally  hoped  that  the  frisky  Bucephalus 
would  frisk  his  mistress  out  of  the  cart  and  break 
'her  ne —  arm,  or  at  least  put  her  shoulder  out  of 
joint.  If  he  did,  I  had  fully  determined  in  my 
own  mind  to  hasten  to  her  assistance,  and  shame 
her  to  death  with  delicate  and  assiduous  kindness. 
But  fate  lingered  like  all  the  rest  of  us.  She 
reached  Rowley  in  safety,  and  there  our  roads 
separated.  Whether  she  stopped  there,  or  drove 
into  Ethiopian  wastes  beyond,  I  cannot  say ;  but 
I  have  no  doubt  that  the  milk  which  she  carried 
into  Newburyport  to  market  was  blue,  the  but- 
ter frowy,  and  the  potatoes  exceedingly  smalL 

Now  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  any  man 
would  have  been  guilty  of  such  a  thing  ?  I  don't 
mean,  would  have  committed  such  discourtesy  to  a 
woman  ?  Of  course  not ;  but  would  a  man  ever 
do  it  to  a  man  ?  Never.  He  might  try  it  once 
or  twice,  just  for  fun,  just  to  show  off  his  horse, 
but  he -never  would  have  persisted  in  it  till  a  joke 
became  an  insult,  not  to  say  a  possible  injury. 

Still,  as  I  was  about  to  say,  when  that  Rowley 
jade  interrupted  me,  though  I  have  small  faith  in 
Di-Vernonism  generally,  and  no  large  faith  in  my 
own  personal  prowess,  I  did  feel  myself  equal  to 


80  GALA-DAYS. 

the  task  of  holding  the  reins  while  our  Rosinante 
walked  along  an  open  road  to  a  pump.  I  there- 
fore resented  Halicarnassus's  contemptuous  tones, 
mounted  the  wagon  with  as  much  dignity  as  wag- 
ons allow,  sat  straight  as  an  arrow  on  the  driver's 
seat,  took  the  reins  in  both  hands,  —  as  they  used 
to  tell  me  I  must  not,  when  I  was  a  little  girl, 
because  that  was  women's  way,  but  I  find  now 
that  men  have  adopted  it,  so  I  suppose  it  is  all 
right,  —  and  proceeded  to  show,  like  Sam  Patch, 
that  some  things  can  be  done  as  well  as  others. 
Halicarnassus  and  the  Anakim  took  up  their  posi- 
tion in  line  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  hat  in 
hand,  watching. 

"  Go  fast,  and  shame  them,"  whispered  Grande, 
from  the  back-seat,  and  the  suggestion  jumped 
with  my  own  mood.  It  was  a  moment  of  intense 
excitement.  To  be  or  not  to  be.  I  jerked  the 
lines.  Pegasus  did  not  start. 

"  C-1-k-l-k  !  "     No  forward  movement. 

"  Huddup  !  "     Still  waiting  for  reinforcements. 

"H-w-e."  (Attempt  at  a  whistle.  Dead  fail- 
ure.) 

(  Sotto  voce.~)  . "  O  you  beast !  "  (Pianissimo.') 
"  Gee !  Haw  I  haw  !  haw !  "  with  a  terrible  jerk- 
ing of  the  reins. 

A  voice  over  the  way,  distinctly  audible,  utters 
the  cabalistic  words,  «*  Two  forty."  Another 
voice,  as  audible,  asks,  "  Which  .'11  you  bet  on  ?  " 
It  was  not  soothing.  It  did  seem  as  if  the  imp  of 


GALA-DAYS.  81 

the  perverse  had  taken  possession  of  that  terrible 
nag  to  go  and  make  such  a  display  at  such  a 
moment.  But  as  his  will  rose,  so  did  mine,  and 
as  my  will  went  up,  my  whip  went  with  it ;  but 
before  it  came  down,  Halicarnassus  made  shift  to 
drone  out,  "  Would  n't  Flora  go  faster,  if  she  was 
untied  ?  " 

To  be  sure,  I  had  forgotten  to  unfasten  him, 
and  there  those  two  men  had  stood  and  known  it 
all  the  time !  I  was  in  the  wagon,  so  they  were 
secure  from  personal  violence,  but  I  have  a  vague 
impression  of  some  "pet  names"  flying  wildly 
about  in  the  air  in  that  vicinity.  Then  we  trun- 
dled safely  down  the  lane.  We  were  to  go  in  the 
direction  leading  away  from  home,  —  the  horse's. 
I  don't  think  he  perceived  it  at  first,  but  as  soon 
as  he  did  snuff  the  fact,  which  happened  when  he 
had  gone  perhaps  three  rods,  he  quietly  turned 
around  and  headed  the  other  way,  paying  no  more 
attention  to  my  reins  or  my  terrific  "  whoas ! " 
than  if  I  were  a  sleeping  babe.  A  horse  is  none 
of  your  woman's-rights  men.  He  is  Pauline.  He 
suffers  not  the  woman  to  usurp  authority  over 
him.  He  never  says  anything  nor  votes  anything, 
but  declares  himself  unequivocally  by  taking  things 
into  his  own  hands,  whenever  he  knows  there  is 
nobody  but  a  woman  behind  him,  —  and  somehow 
he  always  does  know.  After  Halicarnassus  had 
turned  him  back  and  set  him  going  the  right  way, 
I  took  on  a  gruff,  manny  voice,  to  deceive.  Non- 


82  GALA-DAYS. 

sense !  I  could  almost  see  him  snap  his  fingers  at 
me.  He  minded  my  "whip  no  more  than  he  did  a 
fly,  —  not  so  much  as  he  did  some  flies.  Grande 
said  she  supposed  his  back  was  all  callous.  I  acted 
upon  the  suggestion,  knelt  down  in  the  bottom  of 
the  wagon,  and  leaned  over  the  dasher  to  whip 
him  on  his  belly,  then  climbed  out  on  the  shafts 
and  snapped  about  his  ears ;  but  he  stood  it  much 
better  than  I.  Finally  I  found  that  by  taking  the 
small  end  of  the  wooden  whip-handle,  and  sticking 
it  into  him,  I  could  elicit  a  faint  flash  of  light ;  so 
I  did  it  with  assiduity,  but  the  moderate  trot  which 
even  that  produced  was  not  enough  to  accomplish 
my  design,  which  was  to  outstrip  the  two  men  and 
make  them  run  or  beg.  The  opposing  forces  ar- 
rived at  the  pump  about  the  same  time. 

Halicarnassus  took  the  handle,  and  gave  about 
five  jerks.  Then  the  Anakim  took  it  and  gave 
five  more.  Then  they  both  stopped  and  wiped 
vtheir  faces. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  this  pump  was  put  here 
for?"  asked  Halicarnassus. 

"  A  milestone,  probably,"  replied  the  Anakim. 

Then  they  resumed  their  Herculean  efforts  till 
the  water  came,  and  then  they  got  into  the  wagon, 
and  we  drove  into  the  blackberries  once  more, 
where  we  arrived  just  in  season  to  escape  a  thun- 
der-shower, and  pile  merrily  into  one  of  several 
coaches  waiting  to  convey  passengers  in  various 
directions  as  soon  as  the  train  should  come. 


GALA-DAYS.  83 

It  is  very  selfish,  but  fine  fun,  to  have  secured 
your  own  chosen  seat  and  bestowed  your  own  lug- 
gage, and  have  nothing  to  do  but  witness  the 
anxieties  and  efforts  of  other  people.  The  exquis- 
ite pleasure  we  enjoyed  for  fifteen  minutes,  edified 
at  the  last  by  hearing  one  of  our  coachmen  call 
out,  "  Here,  Rosey,  this  way !  "  —  whereupon  a 
manly  voice,  in  the  darkness,  near  us,  soliloquized, 
"  Respectful  way  of  addressing  a  judge  of  the 
Supreme  Court ! "  and,  being  interrogated,  the 
voice  informed  us  that  "  Rosey  "  was  the  vulgate 
for  Judge  Rosecranz ;  whereupon  Halicarnassus 
glossed  over  the  rampant  democracy  by  remark- 
ing that  the  diminutive  was  probably  a  term  of 
endearment  rather  than  familiarity;  whereupon 
the  manly  voice  —  if  I  might  say  it  —  snickered 
audibly  in  the  darkness,  and  we  all  relapsed  into 
silence.  But  could  anything  be  more  characteris- 
tic of  a  certain  phase  of  the  manners  of  our  great 
and  glorious  country  ?  Where  are  the  Trollopes  ? 
Where  is  Dickens  ?  Where  is  Basil  Hall  ?  4 

It  is  but  a  dreary  ride  to  Lake  George  on  a  dark 
and  rainy  evening,  unless  people  like  riding  for  its 
own  sake,  as  I  do.  If  there  are  suns  and  stars 
and  skies,  very  well.  If  there  are  not,  very  well 
too :  I  like  to  ride  all  the  same.  I  like  everything 
in  this  world  but  Saratoga.  Once  or  twice  our 
monotony  was  broken  up  by  short  halts  before 
country  inns.  At  one  an  excitement  was  going 
on.  "  Had  a  casualty  here  this  afternoon,"  re- 


84  GALA-DAYS. 

marked  a  fresh  passenger,  as  soon  as  he  was  fairly 
seated.  A  casualty  is  a  windfall  to  a  country 
villafge.  It  is  really  worth  while  to  have  a  head 
broken  occasionally,  for  the  wholesome  stirring-up 
it  gives  to  the  heads  that  are  not  broken.  On  the 
whole,  I  question  whether  collisions  and  collusions 
do  not  cause  as  much  good  as  harm.  Certainly, 
people  seem  to  take  the  most  lively  satisfaction  in 
receiving  and  imparting  all  the  details  concerning 
them.  Our  passenger-friend  opened  his  budget 
with  as  much  complacence  as  ever  did  Mr.  Glad- 
stone or  Disraeli,  and  with  a  confident  air  of  know- 
ing that  he  was  going  not  only  to  enjoy  a  piece  of 
good-fortune  himself,  but  to  administer  a  great 
gratification  to  us.  Our  "  casualty  "  turned  out 
to  be  the  affair  of  a  Catholic  priest,  of  which  our 
informer  spoke  only  in  dark  hints  and  with  signifi- 
cant shoulder-shrugs  and  eyebrow-elevations,  be- 
cause it  was  "  not  exactly  the  thing  to  get  out, 
you  know  " ;  but  if  it  was  n't  to  get  out,  why  did  he 
*let  it  out  ?  and  so  from  my  dark  corner  I  watched 
him  as  a  cat  does  a  mouse,  and  the  lamp-light 
shone  full  upon  him,  and  I  understood  every  word 
and  shrug,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  it  all  to  the 
world.  I  translated  that  the  holy  father  had  been 
"  skylarking "  in  a  boat,  and  in  gay  society  had 
forgotten  his  vows  of  frugality  and  abstinence  and 
general  mortification  of  the  flesh,  and  had  become, 
not  very  drunk,  but  drunk  enough  to  be  danger- 
ous, when  he  came  ashore  and  took  a  horse  in  his 


GALA-DAYS.  85 

hands,  and  so  upset  his  carriage,  and  gashed  his 
temporal  artery,  and  came  to  grief,  which  is  such  a 
casualty  as  does  not  happen  every  day,  and  I  don't 
blame  people  for  making  the  most  of  it.  Then 
the  moral  was  pointed,  the  tale  adorned,  and 
the  impression  deepened,  solemnized,  and  struck 
home  by  the  fact  that  the  very  horse  concerned 
in  the  "  casualty  "  was  to  be  fastened  behind  our 
coach,  and  the  whole  population  came  out  with 
lanterns  and  umbrellas  to  tie  him  on,  —  all  but  one 
man,  who  was  deaf,  and  stood  on  the  piazza,  anx- 
ious and  eager  to  know  everything  that  had  been 
and  was  still  occurring,  and  yet  sorry  to  give 
trouble,  and  so  compromising  the  matter  and  mak- 
ing it  worse,  as  compromisers  generally  do,  by 
questioning  everybody  with  a  deprecating,  fawn- 
ing air. 

Item.  We  shall  all,  if  we  live  long  enough,  be 
deaf,  but  we  need  not  be  meek  about  it.  I  for 
one  am  determined  to  walk  up  to,  people  and  de- 
mand what  they  are  saying  at  the  point  of  the* 
bayonet.  Deafness,  if  it  must  be  so,  but  inde- 
pendence at  any  rate. 

And  when  the  fulness  of  time  is  come,  we 
alight  at  Fort- William-Henry  Hotel,  and  all  night 
long  through  the  sentient  woods  I  hear  the 
booming  of  Johnson's  cannon,  the  rattle  of  Die- 
skau's  guns,  and  that  wild  war-whoop,  more  terri- 
ble than  all.  Again  old  Monro  watches  from  his 
fortress-walls  the  steadily  approaching  foe,  and 


86  GALA-DAYS. 

looks  in  vain  for  help,  save  to  his  own  brave 
heart.  I  see  the  light  of  conquest  shining  in  his 
foeman's  eye,  darkened  by  no  shadow  of  the  fate 
that  waits  his  coming  on  a  bleak  Northern  hill ; 
but,  generous  in  the  hour  of  victory,  he  shall  not 
be  less  noble  in  defeat,  —  for  to  generous  hearts 
all  generous  hearts  are  friendly,  whether  they 
stand  face  to  face  or  side  by  side. 

Over  the  woods  and  the  waves,  when  the  morn- 
ing breaks,  like  a  bridegroom  coming  forth  from 
his  chamber,  rejoicing  as  a  strong  man  to  run  a 
race,  comes  up  the  sun  in  his  might  and  crowns 
himself  king.  All  the  summer  day,  from  morn 
to  dewy  eve,  we  sail  over  the  lakes  of  Paradise. 
Blue  waters,  and  blue  sky,  soft  clouds  and  green 
islands,  and  fair,  fruitful  shores,  sharp-pointed 
hills,  long,  gentle  slopes  and  swells,  and  the  lights 
and  shadows  of  far-stretching  woods  ;  and  over 
all  the  potence  of  the  unseen  past,  the  grand,  his- 
toric past,  —  so/t  over  all  the  invisible  mantle 
which  our  fathers  flung  at  their  departing,  —  the 
mystic  effluence  of  the  spirits  that  trod  these  wilds 
and  sailed  these  waters,  —  the  courage  and  the 
fortitude,  the  hope  that  battled  against  hope,  the 
comprehensive  outlook,  the  sagacious  purpose,  the 
resolute  will,  the  unhesitating  self-sacrifice,  the 
undaunted  devotion  which  has  made  this  heroic 
ground  ;  cast  these  into  your  own  glowing  cruci- 
ble, O  gracious  friend,  and  crystallize  for  yourself 
such  a  gem  of  days  as  shall  worthily  be  set  forever 
in  your  crown  of  the  beatitudes. 


III. 

OMETIMES  I  become  disgusted  with 
myself.  Not  very  often,  it  is  true,  for 
I  don't  understand  the  self-abhorrence 
that  I  occasionally  see  long  drawn  out 
in  the  strictly  private  printed  diaries  of  good  dead 
people.  A  man's  self-knowledge,  as  regards  his 
Maker,  is  a  matter  that  lies  only  between  his 
Maker  and  himself,  of  which  no  printed  or  writ- 
ten (scarcely  even  spoken)  words  can  give,  or 
ought  to  give,  a  true  transcript ;  but  in  respect 
of  our  relations  to  other  people  I  suppose  we 
may  take  tolerably  accurate  views,  and  state  them 
without  wickedness,  if  it  comes  in  the  way ;  and 
since  the  general  trend  of  opinion  seems  to  be 
towards  excessive  modesty,  I  will  sacrifice  my- 
self to  the  good  of  society,  and  say  that,  in 
the  main,  I  think  I  am  a  rather  "  nice "  sort 
of  person.  Of  course  I  do  a  great  many  things, 
and  say  a  great  many  things,  and  think  a  great 
many  things,  that  I  ought  not ;  but  when  I  think 
of  the  sins  that  I  don't  commit,  —  the  many  times 


88  GALA-DAYS. 

when  I  feel  cross  enough  to  "  bite  a  ten-penny  nail 
in  two,"  and  only  bite  my  lips,  —  the  sacrifices  I 
make  for  other  people,  and  don't  mention  it,  and 
they  themselves  never  know  it,  —  the  quiet  cheer- 
fulness I  maintain  when  the  fire  goes  out,  or  un- 
expected guests  arrive  and  there  is  no  bread  in  the 
house,  or  my  manuscript  is  respectfully  declined 
by  that  infatuated  editor,  —  when  I  reflect  upon 
these  things,  and  a  thousand  others  like  unto 
them,  I  must  say,  I  am  lost  in  admiration  of  my 
own  virtues.  You  may  not  like  me,  but  that  is 
a  mere  difference  of  taste.  At  any  rate,  I  like 
myself  very  well,  and  find  myself  very  good  com- 
pany. Many  a  laugh,  and  "  lots "  or  "  heaps " 
(according  as  you  are  a  Northern  or  a  Southern 
provincial)  of  conversation  we  have  all  alone,  and 
are  usually  on  exceeding  good  terms,  which  is 
a  pleasure,  even  when  other  people  like  me,  and 
an  immense  consolation  when  they  don't.  But 
as  I  was  saying,  I  do  sometimes  fall  out  with 
myself,  and  with  human  nature  in  general  (and, 
in  fact,  I  rather  think  the  secret  of  self-com- 
placence -lurks  somewhere  hereabouts,  —  in  a 
mental  assumption  that  our  virtues  are  our  own, 
but  our  faults  belong  to  the  race).  But  to  think 
that  we  were  so  puny  and  puerile  that  we  could 
not  stand  the  beauty  that  breathed  around  us  ! 
I  do  not  mean  that  it  killed  us,  but  it  drained  us. 
It  did  not  cease  to  be  beautiful,  but  we  ceased  to 
be  overpowered.  When  the  day  began,  eye  and 


GALA-DAYS.  89 

soul  were  filled  with  the  light  that  never  was 
on  sea  or  shore.  We  spoke  low  and  little,  gaz- 
ing with  throbbing  hearts,  breathless,  receptive, 
solemn,  and  before  twelve  o'clock  we  flatted  out 
and  made  jests.  This  is  humiliation,  — --that  our 
dullard  souls  cannot  keep  up  to  the  pitch  of  sub- 
limity for  two  hours  ;  that  we  could  sail  through 
Glory  and  Beauty,  through  Past  and  Present,  and 
laugh.  Low  as  I  sank  with  the  rest,  though,  I  do 
believe  I  held  out  the  longest :  but  what  can  one 
frail  pebble  do  against  a  river  ?  "  How  pretty 
cows  look  in  a  landscape,"  I  said  ;  for  you  know, 
even  if  you  must  come  down,  it  is  better  to  roll 
down  an  inclined  plane  than  to  drop  over  a  preci- 
pice ;  and  I  thought,  since  I  saw  that  descent  was 
inevitable,  I  would  at  least  engineer  the  party 
gently  through  assthetics '  to  puns.  So  I  said, 
"  How  pretty  cows  look  in  a  landscape,  so  calm 
and  reflective,  and  sheep  harmoniously  happy  in 
the  summer-tide." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Anakim,  who  is  New  Hamp- 
shire born ;  "  but  you  ought  to  see  the  New 
Hampshire  sheep,  if  you  want  the  real  article." 

"  I  don't,"  I  responded.  "  I  only  want  the 
picture." 

"  Ever  notice  the  difference  between  Vermont 
and  New  Hampshire  sheep  ? "  struck  up  Hali- 
carnassus,  who  must  always  put  in  his  oar. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  and  I  don't  believe  there 
is  any." 


90  GALA-DA  YS. 

"  Pooh  !  Tell  New  Hampshire  sheep  as  far  off 
as  you  can  see  'em,"  he  persisted,  "  by  their  short 
legs  and  long  noses.  Short  legs  to  bring  'em  near 
the  grass,  and  long  noses  to  poke  under  the  rocks 
and  get  it." 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  said  the  Anakim  pleasant- 
ly. "  I  O  U  1  " 

"  He  hath  made  everything  beautiful  in  his 
time,"  murmured  Grande,  partly  because,  gazing 
at  the  distant  prospect,  she  thought  so,  and  partly 
as  a  praiseworthy  attempt,  in  her  turn,  to  pluck  us 
out  of  the  slough  into  which  we  had  fallen. 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  Halicarnassus,  who  is 
always  lugging  in  little  scraps  of  information 
apropos  to  everything,  —  "I  have  been  told  that 
Dr.  Alexander  was  so  great  an  admirer  of  the 
Proverbs  of  Solomon,  that  he  used  to  read  them 
over  every  three  months." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  interposed,  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  correct  and  humiliate  him,  "  but 
that  was  not  one  of  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon." 

"  Who  said  it  was  ?  "  asked  the  Grand  Mogul, 


"  Nobody ;  but  you  thought  it  was  when  she 
said  it,"  answered  his  antagonist,  coolly. 

"  And  whose  proverb  is  it,  my  Lady  Supe- 
rior ?  " 

"  It  is  in  Ecclesiastes,"  I  said.  . 

"  Well,  Ecclesiastes  is  next  door  to  Solomon. 
It's  all  one."  Halicarnassus  can  creep  through  the 


GALA-DAYS.  91 

smallest  knot-hole  of  any  man  of  his  size  it  has 
ever  been  my  lot  to  meet,  provided  there  is  any- 
thing on  the  other  side  he  wishes  to  get  at.  If 
there  is  not,  and  especially  if  anything  is  there 
which  he  wishes  to  shun,  a  four  hundred  and 
fifty  pounder  cannot  crash  a  hole  large  enough  for 
you  to  push  him  through.  By  such  a  pitiful 
chink  as  that  did  his  Infallible  Highness  wriggle 
himself  out  of  the  range  of  my  guns,  and  pursue 
his  line  of  remark. 

"  But  I  really  cannot  say  that  I  have  been  able 
to  detect  the  excessive  superiority  of  Solomon's 
proverbs.  If  it  were  not  for  the  name  of  it,  I 
think  Sancho  Panza's  much  better." 

"  Taisez-vous.  Hold  your  tongue,"  I  said, 
without  mitigation.  If  there  is  anything  I  cannot 
away  with,  it  is  trivial  apostasy.  I  tolerate  latitu- 
dinarianism  when  it  is  hereditary.  Where  peo- 
ple's fathers  and  mothers  before  them  have  been 
Pagans,  and  Catholics,  and  Mohammedans,  you 
don't  blame  them  for  being  so.  You  regret  their 
error,  and  strive  to  lead  them  back  into  the  right 
path ;  only  they  are  not  inflammatory.  But  to 
have  people  go  out  from  the  faith  of  their  fathers 
with  malice  aforethought  and  their  eves  open  — 
well,  that  is  not  exactly  what  I  mean  either. 
That  is  a  sorrowful,  but  not  necessarily  an  exas- 
perating thing.  What  I  mean  is  this :  I  see 
people  Orthodox  from  their  cradles,  (and  proba- 
bly only  from  their  cradles,  certainly  not  from 


92  GALA-DAYS. 

their  brains,)  who  think  it  is  something  pretty  to 
become  Unitarianistic.  They  don't  become  Uni- 
tarians, as  they  'never  were  Orthodox,  because 
they  have  not  thought  enough  or  sense  enough  to 
become  or  to  be  anything  ;  but  they  like  to  make 
a  stir  and  attract  attention.  They  seem  to  think 
it  indicates  great  liberality  of  character,  and  great 
breadth  of  view,  to  be  continually  flinging  out 
against  their  own  faith,  ridiculing  this,  that,  and 
the  other  point  held  by  their  Church,  and  shock- 
ing devout  and  simple-minded  Orthodox  by  their 
quasi-profanity.  Now  for  good  Orthodox  Chris- 
tians I  have  a  great  respect ;  and  for  good  Unita- 
rian Christians  I  have  a  great  respect ;  and  for  sin- 
cere, sad  seekers,  who  can  find  no  rest  for  the  sole 
of  their  foot,  I  have  a  great  respect ;  but  for  these 
Border  State  men,  who  are  neither  here  nor  there, 
on  whom  you  never  can  lay  your  hand,  because 
they  are  twittering  everywhere,  I  have  a  profound 
contempt.-  I  wish  people  to  be  either  one  thing 
or  another.  I  desire  them  to  believe  something, 
and  know  what  it  is,  and  stick  to  it.  I  have  no 
patience  with  this  modern  outcry  against  creeds. 
You  hear  people  inveigh  against  them,  without 
for  a  moment  thinking  what  they  are.  They 
talk  as  if  creeds  were  the  head  and  front  of  hu- 
man offending,  the  infallible  sign  of  bigotry  and 
hypocrisy,  incompatible  alike  with  piety  and  wis- 
dom. Do  not  these  wise  men  know  that  the 
thinkers  and  doers  of  the  earth,  in  overwhelming 


GALA-DAYS.  93 

majority,  have  been  creed  men  ?  Creeds  may  exist 
without  religion,  but  neither  religion,  nor  philos- 
ophy, nor  politics,  nor  society,  can  exist  without 
creeds.  There  must  be  a  creed  in  the  head,  or  there 
cannot  be  religion  in  the  heart.  You  must  believe 
that  Deity  exists,  before  you  can  reverence  Deity. 
You  must  believe  in  the  fact  of  humanity,  or  you 
cannot  love  your  fellows.  A  creed  is  but  the  con- 
centration, the  crystallization,  of  belief.  Truth  is 
of  but  little  worth  till  it  is  so  crystallized.  Truth 
lying  dissolved  in  oceans  of  error  and  nonsense 
and  ignorance  makes  but  a  feeble  diluent.  It 
swashes  everywhere,  but  to  deluge,  not  to  benefit. 
Precipitate  it,  and  you  have  the  salt  of  the  earth. 
Political  opposition,  inorganic,  is  but  a  blind,  cum- 
brous, awkward,  inefficient  thing  ;  but  construct  a 
platform,  and  immediately  it  becomes  lithe,  effi- 
cient, powerful.  Even  before  they  set  foot  on 
these  rude  shores,  our  forefathers  made  a  com- 
pact, and  a  nation  was  born  in  that  day.  It  is  on 
creeds  that  strong  men  are  nourished,  and  that 
which  nourishes  the  leaders  into  eminence  is 
necessary  to  keep  the  masses  from  sinking.  A 
man  who  really  thinks,  will  think  his  way  into 
light.  He  may  turn  many  a  somersault,  but  he 
will  come  right  side  up  at  last.  But  people  in 
general  do  not  think,  and  if  they  refuse  to  be 
walled  in  by  other  people's  thoughts,  they  inevita- 
bly flop  and  flounder  into  pitiable  prostration.  So 
important  is  it,  that  a  poor  creed  is  better  than 


94  GALA-DA  YS. 

none  at  all.  Truth,  even  adulterated  as  we  get 
it,  is  a  tonic.  Bring  forward  something  tangible, 
something  positive,  something  that  means  some- 
thing, and  it  will  do.  But  this  flowery,  misty, 
dreamy  humanitarianism, —  I  say  humanitarianism, 
because  I  don't  know  what  that  is,  and  I  don't 
know  what  the  thing  I  am  driving  at  is,  so  I  put 
the  two  unknown  quantities  together  in  a  mathe- 
matical hope  that  minus  into  minus  may  give  plus, 
—  this  milk-and-watery  muddle  of  dreary  nega- 
tions, that  remits  the  world  to  its  original  fluidic 
state  of  chaos,  -I  spew  it  out  of  my  mouth.  It 
was  not  on  such  pap  our  Ca3sars  fed  that  made 
them  grow  so  great.  I  believe  that  the  common 
people  of  early  New  England  were  such  lusty 
men,  because  they  strengthened  themselves  by 
gnawing  at  their  tough  old  creeds.  Give  one 
something  to  believe,  and  he  can  get  at  it  and 
believe  it ;  but  set  out  butting  your  head  against 
nothing,  and  the  chances  are  that  you  will  break 
your  neck.  Take  a  good  stout  Christian,  or  a 
good  sturdy  Pagan,  and  you  find  something  to 
bring  up  against ;  but  with  nebulous  vapidists  you 
are  always  slumping  through  and  sprawling  every- 
where. 

Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  that  sincere  and 
sensible  people  never  change  nor  modify  their 
faith.  I  wish  to  say,  for  its  emphasis,  if  you  will 
allow  me,  that  they  never  do  anything  else  ;  but 
generally  the  change  is  a  gradual  and  natural  one, 


GALA-DAYS.  95 

—  a  growth,  not  a  convulsion, — a  reformation,  not 
a  revolution.  When  it  is  otherwise,  it  is  a  serious 
matter,  not  to  be  lightly  done  or  flippantly  dis- 
cussed. If  you  really  had  a  religious  belief,  it 
threw  out  roots  and  rootlets  through  all  your  life. 
It  sucked  in  strength  from  every  source.  It 
intertwined  itself  through  love  and  labor,  through 
suffering  and  song,  about  every  fibre  of  your  soul. 
You  cannot  pull  it  up  or  dig  it  up,  or  in  any 
way  displace  it,  without  setting  the  very  founda- 
tions of  your  life  a-quivering.  True,  it  may  be 
best  that  you  should  do  this.  If  it  was  but  a 
cumberer  of  the  ground,  tear  it  up,  root  and 
branch,  and  plant  in  its  stead  the  seeds  of  that 
tree  whose  leaves  are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 
But  such  things  are  done  with  circumspection,  — 
not  as  unto  man.  If  you  are  gay  and  jovial  about 
it,  if  you  feel  no  darts  of  torture  flashing  through 
the  fastnesses  of  your  life,  do  not  flatter  yourself 
that  you  are  making  radical  changes.  You  are 
only  pulling  up  pig-weed  to  set  out  smart-weed, 
and  the  less  you  say  about  it  the  better. 

Now  Halicarnassus  is  really  just  as  Orthodox  as 
I.  He  would  not  lie  or  steal  any  quicker  than  I. 
He  would  not  willingly  sacrifice  one  jot  or  tittle  of 
his  faith,  and  yet  he  is  always  startling  you  with 
small  heresies.  He  is  like  a  calf  tied  to  a  tree  in 
the  orchard  by  a  long  rope.  In  the  exuberance  of 
his  glee  Bossy  starts  from  the  post,  tail  up,  in  a 
hand  gallop.  You  would  think,  from  the  way  he 


96  GALA-DAY^. 

sets  out,  that  he  was  going  to  race  around  the 
whole  orchard,  and  probably  he  thinks  he  is  him- 
self. But  by  the  time  he  is  fairly  under  full  head- 
way, his  rope  tightens  up  with  a  jerk,  and  away 
he  goes  heels  over  head.  The  only  difference  is, 
that  Halicarnassus  knows  the  length  of  his  tether, 
and  always  fetches  up  in  time  to  escape  an  over- 
turn ;  but  other  people  do  not  know  it,  and  they 
imagine  he  is  going  pell-mell  into  infidelity.  Now 
I  was  determined  to  have  none  of  this  trash  in  a 
steamboat.  One  has  no  desire  to  encounter  super- 
fluous risks  in  a  country  where  life  and  limb  are 
held  on  so  uncertain  a  tenure  as  in  this.  There 
are  quite  chances  enough  of  shipwreck  without 
having  any  Jonahs  aboard.  Besides,  in  point  of 
the  fine  arts,  heterodoxy  is  worse  than  puns.  So 
I  headed  him  off  at  the  first  onset.  But  I  should 
not  have  been  so  entirely  successful  in  the  attempt 
had  I  not  been  assisted  by  a  pair  of  birds  who 
came  to  distract  his  and  our  attention  from  a 
neighboring  thicket.  They  wheeled  —  the  gentle, 
graceful,  sly,  tantalizing  things  —  in  circles  and 
ellipses,  now  skimming  along  the  surface  of  the 
water,  now  swooping  away  in  great  smooth  curves, 
then  darting  off  in  headlong  flight  and  pursuit. 
"  My  kingdom  for  a  gun  !  "  exclaimed  Halicar- 
nassus with  amateur  ardor. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  no  gun,"  said  compassion- 
ate Grande.  "  Why  should  you  kill  them  ?  " 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  I  said,  soothingly,  "  a 
distaff  would  be  as  deadly  in  his  hands." 


I 


GALA-DAYS.  97 

"  Do  you  speak  by  the  book,  Omphale  ?  "  asked 
the  Anakim,  who  still  carried  those  New  Hamp- 
shire sheep  on  his  back. 

"  We  went  a-ducking  once  down  in  Swamp- 
shire,"  I  answered. 

"  Did  you  catch  any  ?  "  queried  Grande. 

"  Duckings  ?  no,"  said  Halicarnassus. 

"Nor  ducks  either,"  I  added.  "He  made 
great  ado  with  his  guns,  and  his  pouches,  and  his 
fanfaronade,  and  knocking  me  with  his  elbows 
and  telling  me  to  keep  still,  when  no  mouse  could 
be  more  still  than  I,  and  after  all  he  did  not  catch 
one." 

"  Only  fired  once  or  twice,"  said  Halicarnassus, 
"just  for  fun,  and  to  show  her  how  to  do  it." 

"  How  not  to  do  it,  you  mean,"  said  the  Ana- 
kim. 

"  You  fired  forty  times,"  I  said  quietly,  but 
firmly,  "  and  the  ducks  would  come  out  and  look 
at  you  as  jg*erested  as  could  be.  You  know  you 
did  n't  scarer  a  little  meadow-hen.  They  knew 
you  could  n't  hit." 

"Trade  off  your  ducks  against  my  sheep,  and 
call  it  even  ?  "  chuckled  the  Anakim  ;  and  so,  chat- 
ting and  happy,  we  glided  along,  enjoying,  not  en- 
tranced, comfortable,  but  not  sublime,  content  u> 
drink  in  the  sunny  sweetness  of  the  summer  day, 
happy,  only  from  the  pleasant  sense  of  being,  tan- 
gling each  other  in  silly  talk  out  of  mere  wanton- 
ness, purling  up  bubbles  of  airy  nothings  in  sheer 

5  G 


98  GALA-DA  YS. 

effervescence  of  animal  delight ;  falling  into  peri- 
odic fits  of  useful  knowledge,  under  the  influence 
of  which  \ve  consulted  our  maps  and  our  watches 
in  a  conjoint  and  clamorous  endeavor  to  locate 
ourselves,  which  would  no  sooner  be  satisfactorily 
accomplished  than  something  would  turn  upland 
set  our  calculations  and4  islands  adrift,  and  we 
would  have  to  begin  new.  Dome  Island  we  made 
out  by  its  shape,  unquestionably ;  Whortleberry 
we  hazarded  on  the  strength  of  its  bushes ;  "Hen 
and  Chicks,"  by  a  biggish  island  brooding  half 
a  dozen  little  ones ;  Flea  Island,  from  a  certain 
snappishness  of  aspect ;  Half- Way  Island,  by  our 
distance  from  dinner;  Anthony's  Nose,  by  its 
unlikeness  to  anything"  else,  certainly  not  from  its 
resemblance  to  noses  in  general,  let  alone  the 
individual  nose  of  Mark  Antony,  or  Mad  An- 
thony, or  any  Anthony  between.  And  then  we 
disembarked  and  posted  ourselves  on  the  coach- 
top  for  a  six-mile  ride  to  Champlain ;  and  Grande 
said,  her  face  still  buried  in  the  map,  "  Here  on 
the  left  is  '  Trout  Brook  '  running  into  the  lake, 
and  a  cross  on  it,  and  '  Ld.  Howe  fell,  1758.' 
That  is  worth  seeing." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  America  loved  his  brother." 
"  America  loved  Aim,"  howled  Halicarnassus, 
thinking  to  correct  me  and  avenge  himself.  Now 
I  knew  quite  well  that  America  loved  him,  and 
did  not  love  his  brother,  but  with  the  mention  of 
his  name  came  into  my  mind  the  tender,  grieved 


GALA-DAYS.  99 

• 
surprise  of  that  pathetic  little  appeal,  and  I  just  said 

it,  —  thought  it  aloud,  —  assuming  historic  knowl- 
edge enough  in  my  listeners  to  prevent  miscon- 
ception. But  to  this  day  Halicarnassus  persists 
in  thinking,  or  at  least  in  asserting,  that  I  tripped 
over  Lord  Howe.  As  he  does  not  often  get  such 
a  chance,  I  let  him  comfort  himself  with  it  as  much 
as  he  can  ;  but  that  is  the  way  with  your  whipper- 
snapper  critics.  They  put  on  their  "  specs,"  and 
pounce  down  upon  some  microscopic  mote,  which 
they  think  to  be  ignorance,  but  which  is  really 
the  diamond-dust  of  imagination.  "  But  let  us 
see  the  place,"  said  Grande.  "  We  must  drive 
within  sight  of  it." 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  Halicarnassus,  ask  the  driver 
to  be  sure  to  tell  us  where  Lord  Howe  fell." 

"  Fell  into  the  brook,"  said  that  Oracle,  and  sat 
as  stiff  as  a  post. 

Ticonderoga,  —  up-hill  and  down-hill  for  six 
miles,  white  houses  and  dark,  churches  and  shops, 
and  playing  children  and  loungers,  and  mills,  and 
rough  banks  and  haggard  woods,  just  like  any  other 
somewhat  straggling  country  village.  O  no  ! 
O  no !  There  are  few  like  this.  /  have  seen 
no  other.  Churches  and  shops  and  all  the  para- 
phernalia of  busy,  bustling  common  life  there  may 
be,  but  we  have  no  eyes  for  such.  Yonder  on  the 
green  high  plain  which  we  have  already  entered  is 
a  simple  guide-post,  guiding  you,  not  on  to  Canada, 
to  New  York,  to  Boston,  but  back  into  the  dead 


100  GALA-DA  YS. 

century  that  lived  so  fiercely  and  lies  so  still.  We 
stand  on  ground  over-fought  by  hosts  of  heroes. 
Here  rise  still  the  breastworks,  grass-grown  and 
harmless  now,  behind  which  men  awaited  bravely 
the  shock  of  furious  onset,  before  which  men 
rushed  as  bravely  to  duty  and  to  death.  Slowly 
we  wind  among  the  little  squares  of  intrenchments, 
whose  deadliest  occupants  now  are  peaceful  cows 
and  sheep,  slowly  among  tall  trees,  —  ghouls  that 
thrust  out  their  slimy,  cold  fingers  -everywhere, 
battening  on  horrid  banquets,  —  nay,  sorrowful 
trees,  not  so.  Your  gentle,  verdant  vigor  nour- 
ishes no  lust  of  blood.  Rather  you  sprang  in  pity 
from  the  cold  ashes  at  your  feet,  that  every  breeze 
quivering  through  your  mournful  leaves  may  harp 
a  requiem  for  Polydorus.  Alighting  at  the  land- 
ing-place we  stroll  up  the  hill  and  among  the  ruins 
of  the  old  forts,  and  breast  ourselves  the  surging 
battle-tide.  For  war  is  not  to  this  generation 
what  it  has  been.  The  rust  of  long  disuse  has 
been  rubbed  off  by  the  iron  hand  of  fate,  —  shall 
we  not  say,  rather,  by  the  good  hand  of  our  God 
upon  us  ?  —  and  the  awful  word  stands  forth  once 
more,  red-lettered  and  real.  Marathon,  Waterloo, 
Lexington,  are  no  longer  the  conflict  of  numbers 
against  numbers,  nor  merely  of  principles  against 
principles,  but  of  men  against  men.  And  as  we 
stand  on  this  silent  hill,  the  prize  of  so  many 
struggles,  our  own  hearts  swell  with  the  hopes 
and  sink  with  the  fears  that  its  <rreen  old  bluffs 


GALA-DAYS.  101 

have  roused.  Up  from  yon  water-side  came  stealing 
the  Green -Mountain  Boys,  with  their  grand  and 
grandiloquent  leader,  and,  at  the  very  gateway 
where  we  stand,  as  tradition  says,  (et  potius  Dii 
numine  firment,~)  he  thundered  out,  with  brave, 
barbaric  voice,  the  imperious  summons,  "  In  the 
name  of  the  great  Jehovah  and  the  Continental 
Congress."  No  wonder  the  startled,  half-dressed 
commander  is  confounded,  and  "  the  pretty  face 
of  his  wife  peering  over  his  shoulder"  is  filled 
with  terror.  Well  may  such  a  motley  crew 
frighten  the  fair  Europeanne.-  "  Frenchmen  I 
know,  and  Indians  I  know,  but  who  are  ye  ? " 
Ah !  Sir  Commander,  so  bravely  bedight,  these 
are  the  men  whom  your  parliamentary  knights 
are  to  sweep  with  their  brooms  into  the  Atlantic 
Ocean.  Bring  on  your  besoms,  fair  gentlemen ; 
yonder  is  Champlain,  and  a  lake  is  as  good  to 
drown  in  as  an  ocean.  Look  at  them,  my  lords, 
and  look  many  times  before  you  leap.  They  are 
a  rough  set,  roughly  clad,  a  stout-limbed,  stout- 
hearted race,  insubordinate,  independent,  irrepres- 
sible, almost  as  troublesome  to  their  friends  as  to 
their  foes;  but  there  is  good  stock  in  them, — brain 
and  brawn,  and  brain  and  brawn  will  yet  carry  the 
day  over  court  and  crown,  in  the  name  of  the 
right,  which  shall  overpower  all  things.  We.  clam- 
ber down  into  arched  passages,  choked  with  debris, 
over  floors  tangled  with  briers,  and  join  in  the 
wild  wassail  of  the  bold  outlaw,  fired  by  his  victo- 


102  GALA-DAYS. 

rious  career.  We  clamber  up  the  rugged  sides 
and  wind  around  to  the  headland.  Brilliant  in 
the  "  morning-shine,"  exultant  in  the  pride  and 
pomp  of  splendid  preparation,  ardent  for  conquest 
and  glory,  Abercrombie  sails  down  the  lovely  in- 
land sea,  to  sail  back  dismantled  and  disgraced. 
The  retrieving  fleet  of  Amherst  follows,  as  brilliant 
and  as  eager,  —  to  gain  the  victory  of  numbers 
over  valor,  but  to  lose  its  fruit,  as  many  a  blood- 
bought  prize  has  since  been  lost,  snatched  from  tho 
conqueror's  hand  by  the  traitor,  doubt.  But  this 
is  only  the  prologue  of  our  great  drama.  Allen 
leaps  first  upon  the  scene,  bucklered  as  no  warrior 
ever  was  since  the  days  of  Homer  or  before. 
Then  Arnold  comes  flying  in,  wresting  laurels 
from  defeat,  —  Arnold,  who  died  too  late.  Here 
Schuyler  walks  up  at  night,  his  military  soul  vexed 
within  him' by  the  sleeping  guards  and  the  inter- 
mittent sentinels,  his  gentle  soul  harried  by  the 
rustic  ill-breeding  of  his  hinds,  his  magnanimous 
soul  cruelly  tortured  by  the  machinations  of  jeal- 
ousy and  envy  and  evil-browed  ambition.  Yonder 
on  the  hill  Burgoyne's  battery  threatens  death, 
and  Lincoln  avenges  us  of  Burgoyne.  Let  the 
curtain  fall ;  a  bloodier  scene  shall  follow. 
***** 
And  then  we  re-embark  on  Lake  Champlain, 
and  all  the  summer  afternoon  sail  down  through 
phantom  fleets,  under  the  frowning  ramparts  of 
phantom  forts,  past  grim  rows  of  deathful-throated 


GALA-DA  YS.  103 

cannon,  through  serried  hosts  of  warriors,  with 
bright  swords  gleaming  and  strong  arms  lifted  and 
stern  lips  parted  ;  but  from  lips  of  man  or  throat 
of  cannon  comes  no  sound.  A  thousand  oars 
strike  through  the  leaping  waves,  but  not  a  plash 
breaks  on  the  listening  ear.  A  thousand  white 
sails  swell  to  the  coming  breeze,  that  brings  glad 
greeting  from  the  inland  hills,  but  nothing  breaks 
the  silences  of  time. 

And  of  all  beautiful  things  that  could  have  been 
thought  of  or  hoped  for,  what  should  come  to 
crown  our  queen  of  days  but  a  thunder-storm,  a 
most  real  and  vivid  thunder-storm,  marshalling  up 
from  the  west  its  grand,  cumulose  clouds;  black, 
jagged,  bulging  with  impatient,  prisoned  thunder 
biding  their  time,  sharp  and  fierce  against  the 
brilliant  sky,  spreading  swiftly  over  the  heavens, 
fusing  into  one  great  gray  pall,  dropping  a  dim 
curtain  of  rain  between  us  and  the  land,  clos- 
ing down  upon  us  a  hollow  hemisphere  pierced 
with  shafts  of  fire  and  deafening  with  unseen 
thunders,  wresting  us  off  from  the  friendly  skies 
and  shores,  wrapping  us  into  an  awful  solitude. 
O  Princess  Rohan,  come  to  me !  come  from  the 
hidden  caves,  where  you  revel  in  magical  glories, 
come  up  from  your  coralline  caves  in  the  mysteri- 
ous sea,  come  from  those  Eastern  lands  of  night- 
ingale, roses,  and  bulbuls,  where  your  tropical  soul 
was  born  and  rocked  in  the  lap  of  the  lotus !  O 
sunny  Southern  beauty,  lost  amongst  Northern 


104  GALA-DAYS. 

snows,  flush  forth  in  your  mystical  splendor  from 
the  ruby  wine  of  Hafiz,  float  down  from  your 
clouds  of  the  sunset  with  shining  garments  of  light, 
open  the  golden  door  of  your  palace  domed  in  a 
lily,  glide  over  these  inky  waves,  O  my  queen  of 
all  waters,  come  to  me  wherever  you  are,  with 
your  pencil  dipped  in  darkness,  starry  with  dia- 
mond dews  and  spanned  with  the  softness  of  rain- 
bows, and  set  on  this  land-locked  Neptune  your 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  assure  to  the  angry 
god  his  bowl  in  Valhalla,  that  the  thunder-vexed 
lake  may  be  soothed  with  its  immortality  I 

But  the  storm  passes  on,  the  clouds  sweep  mag- 
nificently away,  and  the  glowing  sky  flings  up  its 
arch  of  promise.  The  lucent  waters  catch  its 
gleam  and  spread  in  their  depths  a  second  arch  as 
beautiful  and  bright.  So,  haloed  with  magnifi- 
cence, an  earth-born  bark  on  fairy  waters,  com- 
pletely circled  by  this  glory  of  the  skies  and  seas, 
we  pass  through  our  triumphal  gateway  "  deep 
into  the  dying  day,"  and  are  presently  doused  in 
the  mud  at  Rouse's  Point.  Rouse's  Point  is  un- 
doubtedly a  very  good  place,  and  they  were  good 
women  there,  and  took  good  care  of  us  ;  but 
Rouse's  Point  is  a  dreadful  place  to  wake  up  in 
when  you  have  been  in  Dream-Land,  —  espe- 
cially when  a  circus  is  there,  singing  and  shouting 
under  your  windows  all  night  long.  I  wonder 
when  circus-people  sleep,  or  do  they  not  sleep  at 
all,  but  keep  up  a  perpetual  ground  and  lofty 


GALA-DAYS.  105 

tumbling  ?  From  Rouse's  Point  through  Northern 
New  York,  through  endless  woods  and  leagues  of 
brilliant  fire-weed,  the  spirit  of  the  dead  flames 
that  raved  through  the  woods,  past  corn-fields  that 
look  rather  "skimpy,"  certainly  not  to  be  compared 
to  a  corn-field  I  wot  of,  whose  owner  has  a  mono- 
mania on  the  subject  of  corn  and  potatoes,  and 
fertilizes  his  fields  with  his  own  blood  and  brain, 
—  a  snort,  a  rush,  a  shriek,  and  the  hundred  miles 
is  accomplished,  and  we  are  at  Ogdensburg,  a 
smart  little  town,  like  all  American  towns,  with 
handsome  residences  up,  and  handsomer  ones 
going  up,  with  haberdashers'  shops,  and  lawyers' 
offices,  and  judges'  robes,  and  most  hospitable 
citizens,  —  one  at  least,  —  and  all  the  implements 
and  machinery  of  government  and  self-direction, 
not  excepting  a  huge  tent  for  political  speaking 
and  many  political  speeches,  and  everybody  alert, 
public-spirited,  and  keyed  up  to  the  highest  pitch. 
All  this  is  interesting,  but  we  have  seen  it  ever 
since  we  were  born,  and  we  look  a,way  with  wist- 
ful eyes  to  the  north ;  for  this  broad,  majestic 
river  stretching  sky-ward  like  the  ocean,  is  the 
St.  Lawrence.  Up  this  river,  on  the  day  of  St. 
Lawrence,  three  hundred  years  ago,  came  the 
mariner  of  St.  Malo,  —  turning  in  from  the  sea 
till  his  straining  eyes  beheld  on  both  sides  land,  — 
and  planted  the  lilies  of  France.  Now  it  is  the 
boundary  line  of  empires.  Those  green  banks 
on  the  other  side  are  a  foreign  country,  and  for 

5* 


106  GALA-DAYS. 

the  first  time  I  am  not  monarch  of  all  I  survey. 
That  fine  little  city,  with  stately  trees  towering 
from  the  midst  of  its  steeples  and  gray  roofs,  is 
Prescott.  At  the  right  rise  the  ramparts  of  Fort 
Wellington,  whence  cannon-balls  came  hissing 
over  to  Ogdensburg  some  fifty  years  ago.  We 
stand  within  a  pretty  range,  suppose  they  should 
try  it  again !  Farther  on  still  is  a  plain,  gray 
tower,  where  a  handful  of  "  patriots  "  intrenched 
and  destroyed  themselves  with  perverse  martyro- 
phobia  in  a  foolish  and  fruitless  endeavor.  The 
afternoon  is  before  us ;  suppose  we  row  over ; 
here  is  a  boat,  and  doubtless  a  boatman,  or  the 
ferry-steamer  will  be  here  directly.  By  no  means ; 
a  ferry-steamer  is  thoroughly  commonplace ;  you 
can  ferry-steam  anywhere.  Row,  brothers,  row, 
perhaps  you  will '  never  have  the  chance  again. 
Lightly,  lightly  row  through  the  green  waters  of 
the  great  St.  Lawrence,  through  the  sedge  and 
rank  grass  that  wave  still  in  his  middle  depths, 
over  the  mile  and  a  half  of  great  rushing  billows 
that  rock  our  little  boat  somewhat  roughly :  but  I 
am  not  afraid,  —  for  I  can  swim. 

"  You  can,  can  you  ?  "  says  the  Anakim,  incred- 
ulously. 

"  Indeed  I  can,  can't  I,  Halicarnassus  ?  "  ap- 
pealingly. 

"  Like  a  brick  L"  ejaculates  that  worthy,  pulling 
away  at  the  oars,  and  on  we  shoot,  steadily  nearing 
the  rustic  stone  city  that  looks  so  attractive,  so 


GALA-DAYS.  107 

different  from  our  hasty,  brittle,  shingly  American 
half-minute  houses,  —  massive,  permanent,  full  of 
character  and  solid  worth.  And  now  our  tiny 
craft  buts  against  the  pier,  and  we  ascend  from  the 
Jesuit  river  and  stand  on  British  soil.  No  stars 
and  stripes  here,  but  Saint  George  and  his  dragon 
fight  out  their  never-ending  brawl.  No  war,  no 
volunteering,  no  Congress  here  ;  but  peace  and  a 
Parliament  and  a  Queen,  -God  bless  her !  and  this 
is  her  realm,  a  kingdom.  Now  if  it  had  been  a 
year  ago  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  not,  like 
Columbus,  have  knelt  to  kiss  these  dingy  stones, 
so  much  did  I  love  and  reverence  England,  and 
whatever  bore  the  dear  English  name.  But  we 
—  they,  rather  —  have  changed  all  that.  Among 
the  great  gains  of  this  memorable  year,  —  among 
the  devotions,  the  sacrifices,  the  heroisms,  —  all 
the  mightv,  noble,  and  ennobling  deeds  by  which 
we  stand  enriched  forevermore,  —  there  broods  the 
shadow  of  one  irreparable  loss,  —  the  loss  of  Eng- 
land. Success  or  failure  can  make  no  difference 
there.  English  gold,  English  steel,  English  pluck, 
stand  to-day  as  always ;  but  English  integrity, 
English  stanchness,  English  love,  where  are  they  ? 
Just  where  Prescott  is,  now  that  we  have  come 
to  it ;  for  the  substantial  stone  city  a  mile  and 
a  half  away  turns  out  to  be  a  miserable  little 
dirty,  hutty,  smutty,  stagnant  owl-cote  when  you 
get  into  it.  What  we  took  for  stone  is  stolidity. 
It  is  old,  but  its  age  is  squalid,  not  picturesque. 


108  GALA-DAYS. 

We  stumble  through  the  alleys  that  answer  for 
streets,  and  come  to  the  "  Dog  and  Duck,"  a 
dark,  dingy  ale-room,  famous  for  its  fine  ale,  we 
are  told,  or  perhaps  it  was  beer:  I  don't  remember. 
It  is  not  in  male  nature  to  go  by  on  the  other  side 
of  such  a  thing,  and  we  enter,  —  they  to  test  the 
beverage,  Grande  and  I  to  make  observation  of 
the  surroundings.  We  take  position  in  the  pas- 
sage between  the  bar-room  and  parlor.  A  yellow- 
haired  Saxon  child,  with  bare  legs  and  fair  face, 
crawls  out  from  some  inner  hollow  to  the  door, 
and  impends  dangerous  on  the  sill,  throwing 
numerous  scared  backward  glances  over  his  shoul- 
der. The  parlor  is  taken  bodily  out  of  old  Eng- 
lish novels,  a  direct  descendant,  slightly  furbished 
up  and  modernized,  of  the  Village  inn  parlor  of 
Goldsmith,  —  homely,  clean,  and  comfortless.  A 
cotton  tidy  over  the  rocking-chai*  bewrays, 
wrought  into  its  crocheted  gorgeousness,  the 
name  of  Uncle  Tom.  This  I  cannot  stand. 
Time  may  bring  healing,  but  now  the  wound  is 
still  fresh.  "  O,  you  did  Uncle-Tom  it  famously," 
I  hurl  out,  doubling  my  fist  at  the  British  lion 
which  glares  at  me  from  that  cotton  tidy.  "  I 
remember  those  days.  O  yes  !  you  were  ram- 
pant on  Uncle  Tom.  You  are  a  famous  friend 
of  Uncle  Tom,  with  your  Exeter  Halls,  and  your 
Lord  Shaftesburys,  and  your  Duchess  of  Suther- 
lands  I  Cry  your  pretty  eyes  out  over  Uncle 
Tom,  dear,  tender-hearted  British  women.  Write 


GALA-DAYS.  109 

appealing  letters  to  your  sisters  over  the  waters, 
affectionate,  conscientious  kindred ;  canonize  your 
saint,  our  sin,  in  tidies,  and  chair-covers,  and 
Christmas  slippers,  —  we  know  how  to  take  you 
now  ;  we  have  found  out  what  all  that  is  worth  ; 
we  can  appraise  your  tears  by  the  bottle  —  in 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence."  But  the  beer-men 
curtail  my  harangue,  so  I  shake  my  departing 
fist  at  the  cowering  lion,  and,  leaving  this  British 
institution,  .proceed  to  investigate  another  British 
institution,  —  the  undaunted  English  army,  in 
its  development  in  Fort  Wellington.  A  wall 
shuts  the  world  out  from  those  sacred  premises  ; 
a  stile  lets  the  world  in,  —  over  which  stile  we 
step  and  stand  on  the  fort  grounds.  A  party  of 
soldiers  are  making  good  cheer  in  a  corner  of  the 
pasture,  —  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  parade-ground. 
As  no  sentinel  accosts  us,  we  hunt  up  one,  and 
inquire  if  the  fort  is  accessible.  He  does  not 
know,  but  inclines  to  the  opinion  that  it  is.  We  go 
up  the  hill,  walk  round  the  wall,  and  mark  well 
her  bulwarks,  till  we  come  to  a  great  gate,  but  it 
refuses  to  turn.  The  walls  are  too  high  to  scale, 
besides  possible  pickets  on  the  other  side.  I  have 
no  doubt  in  the  world  that  we  could  creep  under, 
for  the  gate  has  shrunk  since  it  was  made,  and 
needs  to  have  a  tuck  let  dowrn  ;  but  what  would 
become  of  dignity  ?  Grande  and  the  Anakim 
make  a  reconnoissance  in  ibrce,  to  see  if  some 
unwary  postern-gate  may  not  permit  entrance. 


110  GALA-DAYS. 

Halicarnassus  fumbles  in  his  pockets  for  edge- 
tools,  as  if  Queen  Victoria,  who  rules  the  waves, 
on  whose  dominions  the  sun  never  sets,  whose 
morning  drum-beat  encircles  the  world,  would  leave 
the  main  gate  of  her  main  fort  on  one  of  the 
frontiers  of  her  empire  so  insecurely  defended 
that  a  single  American  can  carry  it  with  his 
fruit-knife.  Such  ideas  I  energetically  enforce,  till 
I  am  cut  short  by  the  slow  retrogression  of  the 
massive  gate  on  ponderous  hinges  turning. 

"  What  about  the  fruit-knife  ?  "  inquires  Hali- 
carnassus as  I  pass  in.  The  reconnoitring  party 
return  to  report  a  bootless  search,  and  are  electri- 
fied to  find  the  victory  already  gained. 

"  See  the  good  of  having  been  through  college," 
exults  Halicarnassus. 

"  How  did  you  do  it?"  asks  Grande,  admiringly. 

"  By  genius  and  assiduity,"  answers  Halicar- 
nassus. 

"  And  lifting  the  latch,"  I  append,  for  I  have 
been  examining  the  mechanism  of  the  gate  since  I 
came  in,  and  have  made  a  discovery  which  dis- 
lodges my  savant  from  his  pinnacle  ;  namely,  that 
the  only  fastening  on  the  gate  is  a  huge  wooden 
latch,  which  not  one  of  us  had  sense  enough  to  lift ; 
but  then  who  thinks  of  taking  a  fort  by  assault  and 
battery  on  the  latch  ?  Halicarnassus  hit  upon  it 
by  mere  accident,  and  I  therefore  remorselessly 
expose  him.  Then  we  saunter  about  the  place, 
and,  seeing  a  woman  eying  us  suspiciously  from 


GALA-DAYS.  Ill 

an  elevated  window,  we  show  the  white  feather 
and  ask  her  if  we  may  coine  in,  which,  seeing  we 
have  been  in  for  some  ten  minutes,  we  undoubt- 
edly may ;  and  then  we  mount  the  ramparts  and 
peer  into  Labrador  and  Hudson's  Bay  and  the 
North  Pole,  and,  turning  to  a  softer  sky,  gaze  from 
a  "  foreign  clime  "  upon  our  own  dear  land,  home 
of  freedom,  hope  of  the  nations,  eye-sore  of  the 
Devil,  rent  by  one  set  of  his  minions,  and  ridiculed 
by  another,  but  coming  out  of  her  furnace-fires,  if 
God  please  and  man  will,  heartier  and  holier,  be- 
cause freer  and  truer,  than  ever  before.  O  my 
country,  beautiful  -and  beloved,  my  hope,  my 
desire,  my  joy,  and  my  crown  of  rejoicing,  im- 
measurably dearer  in  the  agony  of  your  bloody 
sweat  than  in  the  high  noon  of  your  proud  pros- 
perity !  standing  for  the  first  time  beyond  your 
borders,  and  looking  upon  you  from  afar,  now  and 
forevermore  out  of  a  full  heart  I  breathe  to  you 
benedictions. 


IV. 


'OWN  the  St.  Lawrence  in  a  steamer, 
up  the  St.  Lawrence  on  the  maps,  we 
sail  through  another  day  full  of  eager 
interest.  Everything  is  fresh,  new, 
novel.  Is  it  because  we  are  in  high  latitudes  that 
the  river  and  the  country  look  so  high  ?  I  could 
fancy  that  wre  are  on  a  plateau,  overlooking  a  con- 
tinent. Now  the  water  expands  on  all  sides  like 
an  ocean  meeting  the  sky,  and  now  we  are  sailing 
through  hay-fields  and  country  orchards,  as  if  the 
St.  Lawrence  had  taken  a  turn  into  our  back-yard. 
We  hug  the  Canada  shore,  and  thick  woods  come 
down  the  banks  dipping  their  summer  tresses  in 
the  cool  Northern  river,  —  broad  pasture-lands 
stretch  away,  away  from  river  to  sky,  —  brown, 
dubious  villages  sail  by  at  long  intervals.  On  the 
distant  southern  shore  America  has  stationed  her 
outposts,  and  unfrequent  spires  attest  a  civilized,  if 
remote  life.  In  the  sunny  day  all  things  are  sun- 
ny, save  when  a  Claude  Lorraine  glass  lends  a  dark, 
rich  mystery  to  every  hill  and  cloud.  The  Claude 


GALA-DAYS.  113 

Lorraine  glass  is  a  rara  avis,  and  not  only  gives 
new  lights  to  the  scenery,  btit  brings  out  the  hu- 
man nature  on  board  in  great  force.  The  Anakim 
tells  us  of  one  man  who  asked  him  in  a  confiden- 
tial aside,  if  it  was  a  show,  whereat  we  all  laugh. 
Even  I  laugh  at  the  man's  ignorance,  —  I,  a  thief, 
an  assassin,  a  traitor,  who  six  weeks  ago  had  never 
heard  of  a  Claude  Lorraine  glass ;  but  nobody 
can  tell  who  has  not  tried  it  how  much  credit  one 
gets  for  extensive  knowledge,  if  only  he  holds  his 
tongue.  In  all  my  life  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never 
learn  as  much  as  I  have  been  inferred  to  know 
simply  because  I  kept  still. 

Down  the  St.  Lawrence  in  an  English  steamer, 
where  everything  is  not  so  much  English  as  John 
Bull-y.  The  servants  at  the  table  are  thoroughly 
and  amusingly  yellow-plush,  —  if  that  is  the  word 
I  want,  and  if  it  is  not  that,  it  is  another ;  for  I 
am  quite  sure  of  my  idea,  though  not  of  the  name 
that  belongs  to  it.  The  servants  are  smooth  and 
sleek  and  intense.  They  serve  as  if  it  was  their 
business,  and  a  weighty  business  at  that,  demand- 
ing all  the  energies  of  a  created  being.  Accord- 
ingly they  give  their  minds  to  it.  The  chieftain 
yonder,  in  white  choker  and  locks  profusely  oiled 
and  brushed  into  a  resplendent  expanse,  bears 
Atlas  on  his  shoulders.  His  lips  are  compressed, 
his  brow  contracted,  his  eyes  alert,  his  whole  man- 
ner as  absorbed  as  if  it  were  a  nation,  and  not  a 
plum-pudding,  that  he  is  engineering  through  a 


114  GALA-DAYS. 

crisis.  Lord  Palmerston  is  nothing  to  him,  I  ven- 
ture to  say.  I  know  the  only  way  to  accomplish 
anything  is  to  devote  yourself  to  it ;  still  I  cannot 
conceive  how  anybody  can  give  himself  up  so  com- 
pletely to  a  dinner,  even  if  it  is  his  business  and 
duty.  However,  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of  in 
the  results,  -for  we  are  well  served,  only  for  a  trifle 
too  much  obviousness.  Order  and  system  are  un- 
doubtedly good  things,  but  I  don't  like  to  see  an 
ado  made  about  them.  Our  waiters  stand  behind, 
at  given  stations,  with  prophetic  dishes  in  uplifted 
hands,  and,  at  a  certain  signal  from  the  arch-waiter, 
down  they  come  like  the  clash  of  fate.  Now  I 
suppose  this  is  all  very  well,  but  for  me  I  never 
was  fond  of  military  life.  Under  my  housekeeping 
we  browse  indiscriminately.  When  we  have  noth- 
ing else  to  do,  we  have  a  meal.  If  it  is  nearer 
noon  than  morning,  we  call  it  dinner.  If  it  is 
'nearer  night  tUan  noon,  we  call  it  supper,  unless 
we  have  fashionable  friends  with  us,  and  then  we 
call  it  dinner,  and  the  other  thing  lunch ;  and  ten 
to  one  it  is  so  scattered  about  that  it  has  no  name 
at  all.  At  breakfast  you  will  be  likely  to  find  me 
on  the  door-step  with  a  bowl  of  bread  and  milk, 
while  Halicarnassus  sits  on  the  bench  opposite 
and  brandishes  a  chicken-bone  with  the  cat  mew- 
ing furiously  for  it  at  his  feet.  A  surreptitious 
doughnut  is  sweet  and  dyspeptic  over  the  morning 
paper,  and  gingerbread  is  always  to  be  had  by 
systematic  and  intelligent  foraging.  Consequently 


GALA-DAYS.  115 

tins  British  drill  and  discipline  are  thoroughly 
alarming  to  me,  and  I  am  surprised  and  grateful 
to  find  that  we  are  not  individually  regulated  by 
a  time-table.  I  expect  a  drum-beat;  —  one,  in- 
cision ;  two,  mastication  ;  three,  deglutition ;  —  but 
what  tyranny  does  one  not  expect  to  find  under 
monarchical  institutions  ?  Put  that  into  your  next 
volume,  intelligent  British  tourist. 

Down  the  St.  Lawrence  with  millionnaires,  and 
artists,  and  gay  young  girls,  and  sallow-faced  inva- 
lids, and  weary  clergymen  and  men  of  business 
who  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  their  unwonted 
leisure  and  find  pleasuring  a  most  unmitigated 
bore,  and  mothers  with  sick  children,  dear  little 
unnatural  pale  faces  and  heavy  eyes,  —  may  your 
angels  bring  you  health,  tiny  ones !  —  and,  most 
interesting  of  all  to  me,  a  party  of  priests  and  nuns 
on  their  travels.  They  sit  near  me,  and  I  can  see 
them  without  turning  my  head,  and  hear  them 
without  marked  listening.  The  priests  are  sleek- 
headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'  nights,  ruddy, 
rotund,  robust,  with  black  hair  and  white  hands, 
well-dressed,  well-fed,  well-to-do,  jolly,  gentleman- 
ly, clique-y,  sensible,  shrewd,  au  fait.  The  nuns 
—  now  I  am  vexed  to  look  at  them.  Are  nuns 
expected  to  be  any  more  dead  to  the  world  than 
priests?  Then  I  should  like  to  know  why  they 
must  make  such  frights  of  themselves,  while  priests 
go  about  like  Christians  ?  Why  shall  a  nun  walk 
black,  and  gaunt,  and  lank,  with  a  white  towel 


116  GALA-DAYS. 

wrapped  around  her  face,  all  possible  beauty  and 
almost  all  attractiveness  despoiled  by  her  hideously 
unbecoming  dress,  while  priests  wear  their  hair  and 
their  hats  and  their  coats  and  their  collars  like  any 
other  gentleman  ?  Why  are  the  women  to  be  set 
up  as  targets,  while  the  men  may  pass  unnoticed 
and  unknown?  If  the  woman's  head  must  be 
shorn  and  shaven,  why  not  the  man's  ?  It  is  not 
fair.  I  can  think  of  no  reason,  pretext,  or  excuse, 
unless  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  women  are 
more  beautiful  than  men,  and  need  greater  disfig- 
urement to  make  them  ugly.  That  "is  a  fact  which 
I  have  long  suspected,  and  observations  made  on 
this  journey  confirm  my  suspicions,  —  intensify 
them  into  certainty.  An  ugly  woman  is  hand- 
somer than  a  handsome  man,  —  if  you  examine 
them  closely.  She  is  finer-grained,  more  soft,  more 
delicate.  Men  are  animals  more  than  women.  I  do 
not  now  mean  the  generic  sense  in  which  we  are 
all  animals,  but  specifically  and  superficially.  Men 
look  more  like  horses  and  cows.  See  our  brave  sol- 
diers returning  from  the  wars  —  Heaven's  blessing 
rest  upon  them  !  —  grand,  but  are  they  not  gruff? 
A  woman's  face  may  be  browned,  roughened,  and 
reddened  by  exposure,  yet  her  skin  is  always  skin  ; 
but  often  when  a  man's  face  has  been  sheltered 
from  storm  and  shine,  his  skin  is  hide.  His  mane 
is  not  generally  so  long  and  flowing  as  a  horse's, 
but  there  it  is.  Once,  in  a  car,  a  man  in  front  of 
me  put  his  arm  on  the  back  of  his  seat  and  fell 


GAL  A -DAYS.  117 

asleep.  Presently  his  hand  dropped  over,  and  I 
looked  at  it,  —  a  mass  of  broad,  brawny  vital- 
ity, great  pipes  of  veins,  great  crescents  of  nails, 
great  furrows  at  the  joints,  and  you  might  cut 
a  fine  sirloin  of  beef  off  the  ball  of  the  thumb ; 
and  this  is  a  hand  !  /  call  it  an  ox.  A  woman's 
hand,  by  hard  labor,  spreads  and  cracks,  and 
sprouts  bunches  at  the  joints,  and  becomes  tuber- 
ous at  the  ends  of  the  fingers,  but  you  can  see  that 
it  is  a  deformity  and  not  nature.  It  tells  a  sad 
story  of  neglect,  of  labor,  perhaps  of  heartlessness, 
cruelty,  suffering.  But  this  man's  hand  was  born 
so.  You  would  not  think  of  pitying  him  any  more 
than  you  would  pity  an  elephant  for  being  an  ele- 
phant instead  of  an  antelope.  A  woman's  hair  is 
silky  and  soft,  and,  if  not  always  smooth,  suscepti- 
ble of  smoothness.  A  man's  hair  is  shag.  If  he 
tries  to  make  it  anything  else,  he  does  not  mend 
the  matter.  Ceasing  to  be  shag,  it  does  not  become 
beauty,  but  foppishness,  effeminacy,  Miss  Nancy- 
ism.  A  man  is  a  brute  by  the  law  of  his  nature. 
Let  him  ape  a  woman,  and  he  does  not  cease  to  be 
brutal,  though  he  does  become  ridiculous.  The 
only  thing  for  him  to  do  is  to  be  the  best  kind  of  a 
brute. 

In  all  of  which  remarks  there  is  nothing  deroga- 
tory to  a  man,  —  nothing  at  which  any  one  need 
take  offence.  I  do  not  say  that  manhood  is  not  a 
very  excellent  kind  of  creation.  Everything  is 
good  in  its  line.  I  would  just  as  soon  have  been 


118  GALA-DAYS. 

a  beetle  as  a  woman,  if  I  had  never  been  a  woman, 
and  did  not  know  what  it  was.  I  don't  suppose  a 
horse  is  at  all  crestfallen  because  he  is  a  horse. 
On  the  contrary,  if  he  is  a  thorough-bred,  blood 
horse,  he  is  a  proud  and  happy  fellow,  prancing, 
spirited,  magnificent.  So  a  man  may  be  so  mag- 
nificently manly  that  one  shall  say,  Surely  this  is 
the  monarch  of  the  universe ;  and  hide  and  shag 
and  mane  shall  be  vitalized  with  a  matchless  glory. 
Let  a  man  make  himself  grand  in  his  own  sphere, 
and  not  sit  down  and  moan  because  he  is  only  a 
connecting  link  between  a  horse  and  a  woman. 

I  suppose  Mother  Church  is  fully  cognizant  of 
the  true  state  of  affairs,  and  thinks  men  already 
sufficiently  Satyric,  but  woman  must  be  ground 
down  as  much  as  possible,  or  the  world  will  not  be 
fended  off.  And  ground  down  they  are  in  body 
and  soul.  O  Mother  Church !  as  I  look  upon  these 
nuns,  I  do  not  love  you.  You  have  done  many 
wise  and  right  deeds.  You  have  been  the  ark  of 
the  testimony,  the  refuge  of  the  weary,  the  dis- 
penser of  alms,  the  consoler  of  the  sorrowful,  the 
hope-  of  the  dying,  the  blessing  of  the  dead.  You 
are  convenient  now,  wieldy  in  an  election,  effective 
when  a  gold  ring  is  missing  from  the  toilette  cush- 
ion, admirable  in  your  machinery,  and  astonishing 
in  your  persistency  and  power.  But  what  have 
you  done  with  these  women  ?  In  what  secret 
place,  in  what  dungeon  of  darkness  and  despair,  in 
what  chains  of  torpidity  and  oblivion,  have  you 


GALA-DAYS.  119 

hidden  away  their  souls?  They  are  twenty-five 
and  thirty  years  old,  but  they  are  not  women. 
They  are  nothing  in  the  world  but  grown-up  chil- 
dren. Their  expression,  their  observation,  their 
interests,  are  infantile.  There  is  no  character  in 
their  faces.  There  are  marks  of  pettishness,  but 
not  of  passion.  Nothing  deep,  tender,  beneficent, 
maternal,  is  there.  Time  has  done  his  part,  but 
life  has  left  no  marks.  Their  smiles  and  laughter 
are  the  merriment  of  children,  beautiful  in  children, 
but  painful  here.  Mother  Church,  you  have 
dwarfed  these  women,  helplessly,  hopelessly.  You 
accomplish  results,  but  you  deteriorate  humanity. 

Down  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  great,  melancholy 
river,  grand  only  in  its  grandeur,  solitary,  unap- 
proachable, cut  off  from  the  companionship,  the 
activities,  and  the  interests  of  life  by  its  rocks  and. 
rapids ;  yet  calm  and  conscious,  working  its  work 
in  silent  state. 

The  rapids  are  bad  for  traffic,  but  charming 
for  travellers ;  and  what  is  a  little  revenue  more 
or  less,  to  a  sensation?  There  is  not  danger 
enough  to  awaken  terror,  but  there  is  enough  to 
require  vigilance ;  just  enough  to  exhilarate,  to 
flush  the  cheek,  to  brighten  the  eye,  to  quicken 
the  breath ;  just  enough  for  spice  and  sauce  and 
salt;  just  enough  for  you  to  play  at  storm  and 
shipwreck,  and  heroism  in  danger.  The  rocking 
and  splashing  of  the  early  rapids  is  mere  fun  ;  but 
when  you  get  on,  when  the  steamer  slackens 


120  GALA-DAYS. 

speed,  and  a  skiff  puts  off  from  shore,  and  an 
Indian  pilot  comes  on  board,  and  mounts  to  the 
pilot-house,  you  begin  to  feel  that  matters  are  get- 
ting serious.  But  the  pilot  is  chatting  carelessly 
with  two  or  three  by-standers,  so  it  cannot  be 
much.  Ah !  this  sudden  cessation  of  something ! 
This  unnatural  quiet.  The  machinery  has  stop- 
ped. What !  the  boat  is  rushing  straight  on  to 
the  banks.  H-w-k !  A  whole  shower  of  spray  is 
dashed  into  our  faces.  Little  shrieks  and  laughter, 
and  a  sudden  hopping  up  from  stools,  and  a  sudden 
retreat  from  the  railing  to  the  centre  of  the  deck. 
Staggering,  quivering,  aghast,  the  boat  reels  and 
careens.  Seethe  and  plunge  the  angry  waters, 
whirling,  foaming,  furious.  Look  at  the  pilot. 
No  chatting  now,  no  by-standers,  but  fixed  eyes 
and  firm  lips,  every  muscle  set,  every  nerve 
tense.  Yes,  it  is  serious.  Serious !  close  by  us, 
seeming  scarcely  a  yard  away,  frowns  a  black 
rock.  The  maddened  waves  dash  up  its  sullen 
back,  the  white,  passionate  surf  surges  into  its 
wrathful  jaws.  Here,  there,  before,  behind,  black 
rocks  and  a  wild  uproar  of  waters,  through  all 
which  Providence  and  our  pilot  lead  us  safely  into 
the  still  deep  beyond,  and  we  look  into  each  other's 
faces  and  smile. 

And  now  the  sunset  reddens  on  the  water,  red- 
dens on  the  bending  sky  and  the  beautiful  clouds, 
and  men  begin  to  come  around  with  cards  and 
converse  of  the  different  hotels  in  the  Montreal 


GALA-DAYS.  121 

that  is  to  be ;  one  tells  us  that  the  Prince  of  "Wales 
beamed  royal  light  upon  the  St.  Lawrence  Hall, 
and  we  immediately  decide  to  make  the  balance 
true  by  patronizing  its  rival  Donegana,  whereupon 
a  man  —  a  mere  disinterested  spectator  of  course 
—  informs  us  in  confidence  that  the  Donegana  is 
nothing  but  ruins ;  he  should  not  think  we  would 
go  there  ;  burnt  down  a  few  years  ago,  —  a  shabby 
place,  kept  by  a  grass  widow ;  but  when  was 
American  ever  scared  off  by  the  sound  of  a  ruin  ? 
So  Donegana  it  is,  the  house  with  the  softly  flowing 
Italian  name ;  and  then  we  pass  under  the  arch  of 
the  famous  Victoria  Bridge,  whose  corner-stone,  or 
cap-stone,  or  whatever  it  is  that  bridges  have,  was 
laid  by  the  Prince  of  Wales.  (And  to  this  day  I 
do  not  know  how  the  flag-staff  of  our  boat  cleared 
the  arch.  It  was  ten  feet  above  it,  I  should  think, 
and  I  looked  at  it  all  the  time,  and  yet  it  shrivelled 
under  in  the  most  laughable  yet  baffling  manner.) 
In  the  mild  twilight  we  disembarked,  and  were 
quickly  omnibused  to  the  relics  of  Donegana,  which 
mrned  out  to  be  very  well,  very  well  indeed  for 
mins,  with  a  smart  stone  front,  and  I  don't  know 
vut  stone  all  the  way  through,  with  the  usual  al- 
lowance of  lace  curtains,  and  carpets,  and  gilding 
in  the  parlors,  notwithstanding  flames  and  conjugal 
desolation  ;  also  a  band  welcomed  us  in  the  gas-lit 
square  adjoining,  and  we  were  hospitably  entreat- 
ed and  transmitted  to  the  breakfast-table  next 
morning  in  perfect  sight-seeing  trim ;  only  the 


122  GALA-DAYS. 

Anakim  was  cross,  and  muttered  that  they  had 
sent  him  out  in  the  village  to  sleep  among  the 
hens,  and  there  was  a  cackling  and  screaming  and 
chopping  off  of  heads  all  night  long.  But  the 
breakfast-table  assured  us  that  many  a  cackle  must 
have  been  the  swan-song  of  death.  Halicarnas- 
sus  wondered  if  something  might  not  be  invented 
to  consume  superfluous  noise,  as  great  factories 
consume  their  own  smoke,  but  the  Anakim  said 
there  was  no  call  for  any  new  invention  in  that 
line  so  long  as  Halicarnassus  continued  in  his 
present  appetite,  —  with  a  significant  glance  at  the 
plump  chicken  which  the  latter  was  vigorously 
converting  into  mammalia,  and  which  probably 
was  the  very  one  that  disturbed  the  Anakim's 
repose.  And  then  we  discussed  the  day's  plan  of 
operations.  Halicarnassus  said  he  had  been  diplo- 
matizing for  a  carriage.  The  man  in  the  office 
told  him  he  could  have  one  for  five  dollars.  He 
thought  that  was  rather  high.  Man  said  it  was 
the  regular  price  ;  could  n't  get  one  for  any  less  in 
the  city.  Halicarnassus  went  out  and  saw  one 
standing  idle  in  the  market-place.  Asked  the 
price.  Three  dollars.  For  how  long  ?  Drive  you 
all  round  the  city,  Sir  ;  see  all  the  sights.  Then 
he  went  back  and  told  the  man  at  the  office. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  after  he  had  swallowed  a 
wassail-bowl  of  coffee,  and  showed  no  disposition 
to  go  on,  "  what  did  you  do  then  ?  " 

"  Came  in  to  breakfast." 


GALA-DAYS.  123 

"  Did  n't  you  tell  the  clerk  you  would  not  take 
liis  carnage  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Did  n't  you  tell  the  other  man  you  would  take 
liis  ?  " 

"No." 

"  What  did  you  do?" 

"  Let  it  work.  Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  Give  a 
thing  time  to  work." 

"  And  suppose  it  should  work  you  out  of  any 
carriage  at  all?" 

"  No  danger."  And  to  be  sure,  when  we  had 
finished  breakfast,  the  three-dollar  hack  was  there 
awaiting  our  pleasure.  Our  pleasure  was  to  drive 
out  into  the  British  possessions,  first  around  the 
mountain,  which  is  quite  a  mountain  for  a  villa, 
though  nothing  to  speak  of  as  a  mountain,  with 
several  handsome  residences  on  its  sides,  and  a 
good  many  not  so  handsome ;  but  the  mountain 
is  a  pet  of  Montreal,  and,  as  I  said,  quite  the  thing 
for  a  cockney  mountain.  Then  we  went  to  the 
French  Cathedral,  which  is,  I  believe,  the  great 
gun  of  ecclesiastical  North  America,  but  it  hung 
fire  with  me.  It  was  large,  but  not  great.  There 
was  no  unity.  It  was  not  impressive.  It  was 
running  over  with  frippery,  —  olla  podrida  crop- 
ping out  everywhere.  It  confused  you.  It  dis- 
tracted' you.  It  wearied  you.  You  sighed  for 
somewhat  simple,  quiet,  restful.  The  pictures 
were  pronounced  poor.  I  don't  know  whether 


124  GALA-DAYS. 

they  were  or  not.  I  never  can  tell  a  picture  as  a 
cook  tells  her  mince-pie  meat,  by  tasting  it.  One 
picture  is  a  revealer  and  one  is  a  daub ;  but  they 
are  alike  to  me  at  first  glance.  For  a.  picture  has 
an  individuality  all  its  own.  You  must  woo  it 
with  tender  ardor,  or  it  will  not  yield  up  its  heart. 
The  chance  look  sees  only  color  and  contour ;  but 
as  you  gaze  the  color  glows,  the  contour  throbs, 
the  hidden  soul  heaves  the  inert  canvas  with  the 
solemn  palpitations  of  life.  Art  is  dead  no  longer, 
but  informed  with  divine  vitality.  There  is  no 
picture  but  Hope  crowned  and  radiant,  or  pale  and 
patient  Sorrow,  or  the  tender  sanctity  of  Love. 
The  landscape  of  the  artist  is  neither  painting  nor 
nature,  but  summer  fields  and  rosy  sunsets  over- 
flooded  with  his  own  inward  light.  Only  from  her 
Heaven-anointed  monarch,  man,  can  Nature  re- 
ceive her  knightly  accolade.  And  shall  one  detect 
the  false  or  recognize  the  true  by  the  minute- 
hand?  I  suppose  so,  since  some  do.  But  I  can- 
not. People  who  live  among  the  divinities  may 
know  the  goddess,  for  all  her  Spartan  arms,  her 
naked  knee,  and  knotted  robe  ;  but  I,  earth-born 
among  earth-born,  must  needs  behold  the  auroral 
blush,  the  gliding  gait,  the  flowing  vestment,  and 
the  divine  odor  of  her  purple  hair. 

In  the  vestibule  of  the  French  Cathedral,  I  be- 
lieve it  is,  you  will  behold  a  heart-rending- sight  in 
a  glass  case,  namely,  a  group  of  children,  babies 
in  long  clothes  and  upwards,  in  a  dreadful  state  of 


GALA-DAYS.  125 

/ 

being  devoured  by  cotton-flannel  pigs.  Their 
poor  little  white  frocks  are  stained  with  blood,  and 
they  are  knocked  about  piteously  in  various  stages 
of  mutilation.  A  label  in  front  informs  you  that 
certain  innocents  in  certain  localities  are  subject 
to  this  shocking  treatment ;  and  you  are  earnestly 
conjured  to  drop  your  penny  or  your  pound  into 
the  box,  to  rescue  them  from  a  fate  so  terrible. 
You  must  be  a  cannibal  if  you  can  withstand  this 
appeal.  Suffering  that  you  only  hear  of,  you  can 
forget,  but  suffering  going  on  right  under  your 
eyes  is  not  so  easily  disposed  of. 

Leaving  the  pigs  and  papooses,  we  will  go  to  — 
which  of  the  nunneries  ?  The  Gray  ?  Yes.  But 
when  you  come  home,  everybody  will  tell  you  that 
you  ought  to  have  visited  the  Black  Nunnery. 
The  Gray  is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  year. 
Do  not,  however,  natter  yourself  that  in  choosing 
the  Black  you  will  be  any  more  enviable ;  there 
will  not  be  wanting  myriads  who  will  assure  you, 
that,  not  having  seen  the  Gray,  you  might  as  well 
have  seen  nothing  at  all.  To  the  Gray  Nunnery 
went  we,  and  saw  pictures  and  altars  and  saints 
and  candlesticks,  and  little  dove-cot  floors  of  gal- 
leries jutting  out,  where  a  few  women  crossed, 
genuflected,  and  mumbled,  and  an  old  woman  came 
out  of  a  door  above  one  of  them,  and  asked  the 
people  below  not  to  talk  so  loud,  because  they  dis- 
turbed the  worshippers  ;  but  the  people  kept  talk- 
ing, and  presently  she  came  out  again,  and  repeated 


126  GALA-DAYS. 

her  request,  with  a  little  of  the  Inquisition  in  her 
tones  and  gestures,  —  no  more  than  was  justifiable 
under  the  circumstances :  but  she  looked  straight 
at  me ;  and  O  old  woman !  it  was  not  I  that  talked, 
nor  my  party.  We  were  noiseless  as  mice.  It 
was  that  woman  over  there  in  a  Gothic  bonnet, 
with  a  bunch  of  roses  under  the  roof  as  big  as  a 
cabbage.  Presently  the  great  doors  opened,  and  a 
procession  of  nuns  marched  in  chanting  their  gib- 
berish. Of  course  they  wore  the  disguise  of  those 
abominable  caps,  with  gray,  uncouth  dresses,  the 
skirts  taken  up  in  front  and  pinned  behind,  after 
the  manner  of  washerwomen.  Yet  there  were 
faces  among  them  on  which  the  eye  loved  to  lin- 
ger,—  some  not  too  young  for  their  years,  some 
furtive  glances,  some  demure  looks  from  the  yet 
undeadened  youth  under  those  ugly  robes,  —  some 
faces  of  struggle  and  some  of  victory.  O  Mother 
Church,  here  I  do  not  believe  in  you !  These 
natures  are  gnarled,  not  nurtured.  These  elabo- 
rately reposeful  faces  are  not  natural.  These 
downcast  eyes  and  droning  voices  are  not  natural. 
Not  one  thing  here  is  natural.  Whisk  off  these 
clinging  gray  washing-gowns,  put  these  girls  into 
crinoline  and  Gothic  bonnets,  and  the  innocent 
fineiy  that  belongs  to  them,  and  send  them  out 
into  the  wholesome  daylight  to  talk  and  laugh  and 
make  merry,  —  the  birthright  of  their  young  years. 
A  religion  that  deprives  young  girls  or  old  girls 
of  this  boon  is  not  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ. 
Don't  tell  me ! 


GALA-DAYS.  127 

The  nuns  pass  out,  and  we  wander  through  the 
silent  yard,  cut  off  bv  all  the  gloom  of  the  medi- 
aeval times  from  the  din,  activity,  and  good  cheer  of 
the  street  beyond,  and  are  conducted  into  the  Old 
Men's  Department.  The  floors  and  furniture  are 
faultlessly  and  fragrantly  clean.  The  kitchen  is 
neat  and  susceptible  of  warmth  and  comfort,  even 
when  the  sun's  short  wooing  is  over.  The  beds 
are  ranged  along  the  walls  plump  and  nice ;  yet  I 
hope  that,  when  I  am  an  old  man,  I  shall  not  have 
to  sleep  on  blue  calico  pillow-cases.  Here  and 
there,  within  and  without,  old  men  are  basking  in 
the  rare  sweet  warmth  of  summer,  and  with  their 
canes  and  their  sunshine  seem  very  well  bestowed. 
Now  I  like  you,  Mother  Church.  You  do  better 
by  your  old  men  than  you  do  by  your  young 
women,  —  simply  because  you  know  more  about 
them.  How  can  you,  Papa  and  Messrs.  Cardinals, 
be  expected  to  understand  what  is  good  for  a  girl  ? 
If  only  you  would  confine  yourself  to  what  you 
do  comprehend,  —  if  only  you  would  apply  your 
admirable  organizations  to  legitimate  purposes,  and 
not  run  mad  on  machinery,  you  would  do  angels' 
work. 

From  the  old  men's  quarters  we  go  up-stairs 
where  sewing  and  knitting  and  all  manner  of  fancy- 
work,  especially  in  beads,  are  taught  to  long  and 
lank  little  girls  by  longer  and  lanker  large  girls, 
companioned  by  a  few  old  women,  with  common- 
place knitting-work.  Everything  everywhere  is 


128  GALA-DAYS. 

thoroughly  neat  and  comfortable  ;  hut  I  have  a 
desperate  pang  of  home-sickness  ;  for  if  there  is  one 
condition  of  life  more  intolerable  than  any  other,  it 
is  a  state  of  unvarying,  hopeless  comfort. 

From  the  Gray  Nunnery  to  the  English  Church, 
which  I  like  much  better  than  the  French  Cathe- 
dral. There  is  a  general  tone  of  oakiness,  solid, 
substantial,  sincere,  like  the  England  of  tradition, — 
set  off  by  a  brilliant  memorial  window  and  a  memo- 
rial altar,  and  other  memorial  things  which  I  have 
forgotten,  but  which  I  make  no  doubt  the  people  who 
put  them  there  have  not  forgotten.  Here  also  we 
find,  as  all  along  in  Canada,  vestiges  of  His  Royal 
Highness,  the  Prince  of  Wales.  We  are  shown 
the  Bible  which  he  presented  to  the  Church,  and 
we  gaze  with  becoming  reverence  upon  the  august 
handwriting,  —  the  pew  in  which  he  worshipped ; 
and  the  loyal  beadle  sees  nothing  but  reverence 
in  our  momentary  occupation  of  that  consecrated 
seat.  Evidently  there  is  but  a  very  faint  line  of 
demarcation  in  the  old  man's  mind  between  his 
heavenly  and  earthly  king ;  but  an  old  man  may 
have  a  worse  weakness  than  this,  —  an  unreason- 
ing, blind,  faithful  fondness  and  reverence  for  a 
blameless  prince.  God  bless  the  young  man,  in 
that  he  is  the  son  of  his  father  and  mother.  God 
help  him,  in  that  he  is  to  be  King  of  England. 

Chancel  and  window,  altar,  and  arches  and 
aisles  and  treasures, — is  there  anything  else?  Yes, 
the  apple  that  Eve  ate,  transfixed  to  oak,  —  hard  to 


GALA-DAYS.  129 

be  understood,  but  seeing  is  believing.  And  then 
past  Nelson's  monument,  somewhat  battered,  like 
the  hero  whom  it  commemorates  ;  past  the  Champ 
de  Mars,  a  fine  parade-ground,  hard  and  smooth 
as  a  floor ;  past  the  barracks  and  the  reservoir,  to 
the  new  Court-House,  massive  and  plain.  Then 
home  to  dinner  and  lounging ;  then  travelling- 
dresses,  and  the  steamer,  and  a  most  lovely  sunset 
on  the  river ;  and  then  a  night  of  tranquillity  run- 
ning to  fog,  and  a  morning  approach  to  the  unique 
city  of  North  America,  —  the  first  and  the  only 
walled  city  /ever  saw,  or  you  either,  I  dare  say, 
if  you  would  only  be  willing  to  confess  it.  The 
aspect  of  the  city,  as  one  first  approaches  it,  is 
utterly  strange  and  foreign,  —  a  high  promontory 
jutting  into  the  river,  with  a  shelf  of  squalid, 
crowded,  tall  and  shaky,  or  low  and  squatty  tene- 
ments at  its  base,  almost  standing  on  the  water ; 
and  rising  behind  them,  for  the  back  of  the  shelf, 
a  rough,  steep  precipice  abutted  with  the  solid 
masonry  of  wall  and  citadel.  A  board  fastened 
somehow  about  half-way  up  the  rocky  cliff,  in- 
scribed with  the  .name  of  Montgomery,  marks  the 
spot  where  a  hero,  a  patriot,  a  gentleman,  met  his 
death.  Disembarking,  we  wind  along  a  stair  of  a 
road,  up  steep  ascents,  and  enter  in  through  the 
gates  into  the  city,  —  the  walled,  upper  city, — 
walls  thick,  impregnable,  gates  ponderous,  inert, 
burly.  You  did  well  enough  in  your  day,  old 
Foes ;  but  with  Armstrongs  and  iron-clads,  and 


130  GALA-DAYS. 

Ericsson  still  living,  where  would  you  be? — answer 
me  that.  Quaint,  odd,  alien  old  city,  —  a  faint 
phantasmagoria  of  past  conflicts  and  forgotten 
plans,  a  dingy  fragment  of  la  belle  France,  a  cling- 
ing reminiscence  of  England,  a  dim,  stone  dream  of 
Edinburgh,  a  little  flutter  of  modern  fashion,  plant- 
ed upon  a  sturdy  rampart  of  antiquity,  a  little  cob- 
web of  commerce  and  enterprise,  netting  over  a 
great  deal  of  church  and  priest  and  king,  with  an 
immovable  basis  of  stolid  existence,  —  that  is  the 
Quebec  I  inferred  from  the  Quebec  I  saw.  Nothing 
iu  it  was  so  interesting  to  me  as  itself.  But  passing 
by  itself  for  the  nonce,  we  prudently  took  advan- 
tage of  the  fine  morning,  and  drove  out  to  the  Falls 
of  Montmorency  with  staring  eyes  that  wanted  to 
take  in  all  views,  before,  behind,  on  this  side 
and  that,  at  once ;  and  because  we  could  not,  the 
joints  of  my  neck  at  least  became  so  dry  with 
incessant  action  that  they  almost  creaked.  Low 
stone  cottages  lined  the  road-sides,  with  windows 
that  opened  like  doors,  with  an  inevitable  big  black 
stove  whenever  your  eye  got  far  enough  in,  with  a 
pleasant  stoop  in  front,  with  women  perpetually 
washing  the  floors  and  the  windows,  with  beautiful 
and  brilliant  flowers  blooming  profusely  in  every 
window,  and  often  trailing  and  climbing  about  its 
whole  area.  Here,  I  take  it,  is  the  home  of  a  real 
peasantry,  a  contented  class,  comfortable  and  look- 
ing for  no  higher  lot.  These  houses  seem  durable 
and  ultimate.  The  roofs  of  both  houses  and  piaz- 


GALA-DAYS.  131 

zas  are  broken,  projected,  picturesque,  and  often 
ornamented.  They  shelter,  they  protect,  they 
brood,  they  embrace.  There  are  little  trellises 
and  cornices  and  fanciful  adornments.  The  solid 
homeliness  is  fringed  with  elegance.  The  people 
and  the  houses  do  not  own  each  other,  but  they  are 
married.  There  is  love  between  them,  and  pride, 
and  a  hearty  understanding.  I  can  think  of  a 
country  where  you  see  little  brown  or  red  clap- 
boarded  houses  that  are  neither  solid  nor  elegant, 
that  are  both  slight  and  awkward,  —  angular  and 
shingly  and  dismal.  The  roofs  are  intended  just 
to  cover  the  houses,  and  are  scanty  at  that.  The 
sides  are  straight,  the  windows  inexorable ;  and  for 
flowers  you  have  a  hollyhock  or  two,  and  perhaps 
an  uncomfortably  tall  sunflower,  sovereign  for 
hens.  There  is  no  home-look  and  no  home-atmos- 
phere. I  love  that  country  better  than  I  like  this ; 
but,  if  you  kill  me  for  it,  this  drive  is  picturesque. 
These  dumpy  little  smooth,  white,  flounced  and 
flowered  cottages  look  like  wicker-gates  to  a  happy 
"valley,  —  born,  not  built.  The  cottages  of  the 
country,  in  my  thoughts,  yes,  and  in  my  heart,  are 
neither  born  nor  built,  but  "put  up," — just  for 
convenience,  just  to  lodge  in  while  waiting  for 
something  better,  or  till  the  corn  is  grown.  Com- 
ing man,  benefactor  of  our  race,  you  who  shall 
show  us  how  to  be  contented  without  being  slug- 
gish, — how  to  be  restful,  and  yet  aspiring,  —  how  to 
take  the  goods  the  gods  provide  us,  without  losing 


132  GALA-DAYS. 

out  of  manly  hearts  the  sweet  sense  of  providing, 
—  how  to  plant  happy  feet  firmly  on  the  present, 
and  not  miss  from  eager  eyes  the  inspiriting  out- 
look of  the  future,  —  how  to  make  a  wife  of  to-day, 
and  not  a  mistress  .of  to-morrow,  —  come  quickly 
to  a  world  that  sorely  needs  you,  and  bring  a  fresh 
evangel. 

The  current  of  our  thoughts  is  broken  in  upon 
by  a  new  and  peculiar  institution.  Every  single 
child,  and  every  group  -of  children  on  the  road, 
leaves  its  play  as  we  pass  by,  and  all  dart  upon  us 
on  both  sides  of  the  carriage,  almost  under  the 
wheels,  almost  under  the  horses'  feet,  with  out- 
stretched blackened  hands,  and  intense  bright 
black  eyes,  running,  panting,  shouting,  "  Un  sou! 
un  sou  I  un  sou  I "  I  do  not  think  I  am  quite  in  love 
with  this  as  an  institution,  but  it  is  very  lively 
as  a  spectacle  ;  and  the  little  fleet-footed,  long- 
winded  beggars  show  a  touching  confidence  in 
human  nature.  There  is  no  servility  in  their  beg- 
gary ;  and  when  it  is  glossed  over  with  a  thin, 
mercantile  veneering,  by  the  brown  little  paws 
holding  out  to  you  a  gorgeous  bouquet  of  one  clo- 
ver-blossom, two  dandelions,  and  a  quartette  of 
sorrel-leaves,  why,  it  ceases  to  be  beggarly,  and 
becomes  traffic  overlaid  with  grace,  the  acanthus 
capital  surmounting  the  fluted  shaft.  We  meet  also 
continual  dog-carts,  something  like  the  nondescript 
which  "  blind  Carwell "  used  to  drag.  Did  you 
never  see  it?  Well,  then,  like  the  cart  in  which 


GALA-DAYS.  133 

the  ark  went  up  to  Kirjatli-jearim.  Now  you  must 
know.  Stubborn  two-wheeled  vehicles,  with  the 
whole  farm  loaded  into  the  body,  and  the  wh'ole 
family  on  the  seat.  Here  comes  one  drawn  by  a 
cow,  not  unnatural.  Unnatural !  It  is  the  key-note 
of  the  tune.  Everything  is  cow-y,  —  slow  and 
sure,  firm,  but  not  fast,  kindly,  sunny,  ruminant, 
heavy,  lumbering,  basking,  content.  Calashes  also 
we  meet,  —  a  cumbrous,  old-fashioned  "  one-hoss 
shay,"  with  a  yellow  body,  a  suspicion  of  spring- 
lessness,  wheels  with  huge  spokes  and  broad  rims, 
and  the  driver  sitting  on  the  dash-board.  Now  we 
are  at  the  Falls  of  Montmorency.  If  you  would 
know  how  they  look,  go  and  see  them.  If  you 
have  seen  them,  you  don't  need  a  description  ;  and 
if  you  have  not  seen  them,  a  description  would  do 
no  good.  From  the  Falls,  if  you  are  unsophisti- 
cated, you  will  resume  your  carriage  and  return  to 
the  .city ;  but  if  you  are  aufait,  you  will  cross  the 
high-road,  cross  the  pastures,  and  wind  down  a 
damp,  mossy  wood-path  to  the  steps  of  Montmo- 
rency,—  a  natural  phenomenon,  quite  as  interest- 
ing as,  and  more  remarkable  than,  the  Falls,  — 
especially  if  you  go  away  without  seeing  it.  Any 
river  can  fall  when  it  comes  to  a  dam.  In  fact, 
there  is  nothing  for  it  to  do  but  fall ;  but  it  is  not 
every  river  that  can  carve  out  in  its  rage  such 
wonderful  stairways  as  this,  —  seething  and  foam- 
ing and  roaring  and  leaping  through  its  narrow 
and  narrowing  channel,  with  all  the  turbulence  of 


134  GALA-DAYS. 

its  fiery  soul  unquelled,  though  the  grasp  of  Time 
is  on  its  throat,  silent,  mighty,  irresistible. 

Montmorency,  —  Montmorenci,  —  sweet  and 
storied  name  !  You,  too,  have  received  the  awful 
baptism.  Blood  has  mingled  with  your  sacrifices. 
The  song  of  your  wild  waves  has  been  lost  in  the 
louder  thunders  of  artillery,  and  the  breezes  sweep- 
ing through  these  green  woods  have  soothed  the 
agonies  of  dying  men.  Into  one  heart  this  ancient 
name,  heavy  with  a  weight  of  disaster  and  fancied 
disgrace,  sank  down  like  lead,  —  a  burden  which 
only  death  could  cast  off,  oftly  victory  destroy ; 
and  death  came  hand  in  hand  with  victory. 

Driving  home,  we  take  more  special  note  of 
what  interested  us  aggressively  before,  —  Lord 
Elgin's  residence,  —  the  house  occupied  by  the 
Duke  of  Kent  when  a  young  man  in  the  army 
here,  long  I  suppose  before  the  throne  of  England 
placed  itself  at  the  end  of  his  vista.  Did  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  I  wonder,  visit  this  place,  and, 
sending  away  his  retinue,  walk  slowly  alone  un- 
der the  shadows  of  these  sombre  trees,  striving  to 
bring  back  that  far-off  past,  and  some  vague  out- 
line of  the  thoughts,  the  feelings,  the  fears  and 
fancies  of  his  grandfather,  then,  like  himself,  a 
young  man,  but,  not  like  himself,  a  fourth  son, 
poor  and  an  exile,  with  no  foresight  probably  of 
the  exaltation  that  awaited  his  line,  —  his  only 
child  to  be  not  only  the  lady  of  his  land,  but  our 
lady  of  the  world,  —  a  warm-hearted  woman  wor- 


GALA-tfAYS.  135 

thily  seated  on  the  proud  throne  of  Britain,  —  a 
noble  and  great-souled  woman,  in  whose  sorrow 
nations  mourn,  for  whose  happiness  nations  pray, 
—  whose  name  is  never  spoken  in  this  far-off 
Western  world  but  with  a  silent  blessing.  Another 
low-roofed,  many-roomed,  rambling  old  house  I 
stand  up  in  the  carriage  to  gaze  at  lingeringly  with 
longing,  misty  eyes,  —  the  sometime  home  of  Field 
Marshal  the  Marquis  de  Montcalm.  Writing  now 
of  this  in  the  felt  darkness  that  pours  up  from 
abandoned  Fredericksburg,  fearing  not  what  the 
South  may  do  in  its  exultation,  but  what  the  North 
may  do  in  its  despondency,  I  understand,  as  I  un- 
derstood not  then,  nor  ever  before,  what  comfort 
came  to  the  dying  hero  in  the  certain  thought,  "  I 
shall  not  live  to  see  the  surrender  of  Quebec." 

Now  again  we  draw  near  the  city  whose  thou- 
sands of  silver  (or  perhaps  tin)  roofs  dazzle  our 
eyes  with  their  resplendence,  and  I  have  an  indis- 
tinct impression  of  having  been  several  times 
packed  out  and  in  to  see  sundry  churches,  of 
which  I  remember  nothing  except  that  I  looked  in 
vain  to  see  the  trophies  of  captured  colors  that 
once  hung  there,  commemorating  the  exploits  of 
the  ancients,  —  and  on  the  whole,  I  don't  think  I 
care  much  about  churches  except  on  Sundays. 
Somewhere  in  Canada  —  perhaps  near  Lorette  — 
is  some  kind  of  a  church,  perhaps  the  oldest,  or  the 
first  Indian  church  in  Canada,  —  or  may  be  it  was 
interesting  because  it  was  burnt  down  just  before 


136  GALA-DAYS. 

we  got  there.  That  is  the  only  definite  reminis- 
cence I  have  of  any  church  in  Quebec  and  its 
suburbs,  and  that  is  not  so  definite  as  it  might  be. 
I  am  sure  I  inspected  the  church  of  St.  Roque  and 
the  church  of  St.  John,  because  I  have  entered  it 
in  my  "  Diary  "  ;  but  if  they  were  all  set  down  on 
the  table  before  me  at  this  moment,  I  am  sure  I 
could  not  tell  which  was  which,  or  that  they  had 
not  been  transported  each  and  all  from  Boston. 

But  we  ascend  the  cliff,  we  enter  the  citadel, 
we  walk  upon  the  Plains  of  Abraham,  and  they 
overpower  you  with  the  intensity  of  life.  The 
heart  beats  in  labored  and  painful  pulsations  with 
the  pressure  of  the  crowding  past.  Yonder  shines 
the  lovely  isle  of  vines  that  gladdened  the  eyes  of 
treacherous  Cartier,  the  evil  requiter  of  hospitality. 
Yonder  from  Point  Levi  the  laden  ships  go  gayly 
up  the  sparkling  river,  a  festive  foe.  Night  drops 
her  mantle,  and  silently  the  unsuspected  squadron 
floats  down  the  stealthy  waters,  and  debarks  its 
fateful  freight.  Silently  in  the  darkness,  the  long 
line  of  armed  men  writhe  up  the  rugged  path. 
The  rising  sun  reveals  a  startling  sight.  The  im- 
possible has  been  attained.  Now,  too  late,  the 
hurried  summons  sounds.  Too  late  the  deadly 
fire  pours  in.  Too  late  the  thickets  flash  with 
murderous  rifles.  Valor  is  no  substitute  for  vigi- 
lance. Short  and  sharp  the  grapple,  and  victor 
and  vanquished  alike  lie  down  in  the  arms  of 
all-conquering  death.  Where  this  little  tree  ven- 


GALA-DAYS.  137 

tures  forth  its  tender  leaves,  Wolfe  felt  the  bullet 
speeding  to  his  heart.  Where  this  monument 
stands,  his  soldier-soul  fled,  all  anguish  soothed 
away  by  the  exultant  shout  of  victory,  —  fled  from 
passion  and  pain,  from  strife  and  madness,  into  the 
eternal  calm. 

Again  and  again  has  this  rock  under  my  feet 
echoed  to  the  tramp  of  marching  men.  Again 
and  again  has  this  green  and  pleasant  plain  been 
drenched  with  blood,  this  blue,  serene  sky  hung 
with  the  black  pall  of  death.  This  broad  level  of 
pasture-land,  high  up  above  the  rushing  waters  of 
the  river,  but  coldly  wooed  by  the  faint  northern 
sun,  and  fiercely  swept  by  the  wrathful  northern 
wind,  has  been  the  golden  bough  to  many  an 
eager  seeker.  Against  these  pitiless  cliffs  full 
many  a  hope  has  hurtled,  full  many  a  heart  has 
broken.  Oh  the  eyes  that  have  looked  long- 
ingly hither  from  far  Southern  homes  !  Oh  the 
thoughts  that  have  vaguely  wandered  over  these 
bluffs,  searching  among  the  shouting  hosts,  per- 
haps breathlessly  among  the  silent  sleepers,  for 
household  gods  !  Oh  the  cold  forms  that  have 
lain  upon  these  unnoting  rocks  !  Oh  the  white 
cheeks  that  have  pressed  this  springing  turf!  Oh 
the  dead  faces  mutely  upturned  to  God ! 

Struggle,  conflict,  agony,  —  how  many  of 
earth's  Meccas  have  received  their  chrism  of 
blood  !  Thrice  and  four  times  hopeless  for  hu- 
manity, if  battle  is  indeed  only  murder,  violence, 


138  GALA-DA  YS. 

lust  of  blood,  or  power,  or  revenge,  —  if  in  that 
\vilcl  storm  of  assault  and  defence  and  deathly  hurt 
only  the  fiend  and  the  beast  meet  incarnate  in 
man.  But  it  cannot  be.  Battle  is  the  Devil's 
work,  but  God  is  there.  When  Montgomery 
cheered  his  men  up  their  toilsome  ascent  along 
this  scarcely  visible  path  over  the  rough  rocks,  and 
the  treacherous,  rugged  ice,  was  he  not  upborne 
by  an  inward  power,  stronger  than  brute's,  holier 
than  fiend's,  higher  than  man's  ?  When  Arnold 
flung  himself  against  this  fortress,  when  he  led  his 
forlorn  hope  up  to  these  sullen,  deadly  walls, 
when,  after  repulse  and  loss  and  bodily  suffering 
and  weakness,  he  could  still  stand  stanch  against 
the  foe  and  exclaim,  "  I  am  in  the  way  of  my  duty, 
and  I  know  no  fear ! "  was  it  not  the  glorious 
moment  of  that  dishonored  life  ?  Battle  is  of  the 
Devil,  but  surely  God  is  there.  The  intoxication 
of  excitement,  the  sordid  thirst  for  fame  and  power, 
the  sordid  fear  of  defeat,  may  have  its  place  ;  but 
there,  too,  stand  high  resolve,  and  stern  deter- 
mination,—  pure  love  of  country,  the  immortal 
longing  for  glory,  ideal  aspiration,  god-like  self- 
sacrifice,  loyalty  to  soul,  to  man,  to  the  Highest. 
The  meanest  passions  of  the  brute  may  raven  on 
the  battle-field,  but  the  sublimest  exaltations  of 
man  have  found  there  fit  arena. 

From  the  moment  of  our  passing  into  the  citadel 
enclosure,  a  young  soldier  has  accompanied  us,  — 
whether  from  caution  or  courtesy,  —  and  gives  us 


GALA-DA  YS.  139 

various  interesting,  and  sometimes  startling  infor- 
mation. He  assures  us  that  these  guns  will  fire  a 
ball  eight  miles,  —  a  long  range,  but  not  so  long  as 
his  bow,  I  fear.  I  perceive  several  gashes  or  slits  in 
the  stone  wall  of  the  buildings,  and  I  ask  him  what 
they  are.  "  Them  are  for  the  soldiers'  wives  hin 
the  garrison,"  he  replies  promptly.  I  say  nothing, 
but  I  do  not  believe  they  are  for  the  soldiers' 
wives.  A  soldier's  wife  could  not  get  through 
them.  "  How  many  soldiers  in  a  regiment  are 
allowed  to  have  wives  ? "  asks  Halicarnassus. 
"  Heighty,  sir,"  is  the  ready  response.  I  am  a 
little  horror-struck,  when  we  leave,  to  see  Hali- 
carnassus hold  out  his  hand  as  if  about  to  give 
money  to  this  brave  and  British  soldier,  and 
scarcely  less  so  to  see  our  soldier  receive  it  quiet- 
ly. But  I  need  not  be,  for  my  observation  should 
have  taught  me  that  small  change  —  fees  I  believe 
it  is  called  —  circulates  universally  in  Canada. 
Out  doors  and  in,  it  is  all  one.  Everybody  takes 
a  fee,  and  is  not  ashamed.  You  fee  at  the  falls, 
and  you  fee  at  the  steps.  You  fee  the  church, 
and  here  we  have  feed  the  army ;  and  if  we  should 
call  on  the  Governor-General,  I  suppose  one 
would  drop  a  coin  into  his  outstretched  palm,  and 
he  would  raise  his  hat  and  say,  "  Thank  you,  sir." 
I  do  not  know  whether  there  is  any  connection 
between  this  fact  and  another  which  I  noticed ; 
but  if  the  observation  be  superficial,  and  the  con- 
nection imaginary,  I  shall  be  no  worse  off  than 


140  GALA-DA  YS. 

other  voyageurs,  so  I  will  hazard  the  remark,  that 
I  saw  very  few  intellectual  or  elegant  looking 
men  and  women  in  Quebec,  or,  for  that  matter,  in 
Canada.  Everybody  looked  peasant-y  or  shoppy, 
except  the  soldiers,  and  they  were  noticeably 
healthy,  hale,  robust,  well  kept ;  yet  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  it  is  a  poor  use  to  put  men 
to.  These  soldiers  seem  simply  well-conditioned 
animals,  fat  and  full-fed ;  but  not  nervous,  in- 
tellectual, sensitive,  spiritual.  However,  if  the 
people  of  Canada  are  not  intellectual,  they  are 
pious.  "  Great  on  saints  here,"  says  Halicarnassus. 
"  They  call  their  streets  St.  Genevieve,  St.  Jean, 
and  so  on  ;  and  when  they  have  run  through  the 
list,  and  are  hard  up,  they  club  them  and  have  a 
Street  of  All  Saints." 

Canada  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  Valley  of  Je- 
hoshaphat  for  Secessionists.  "We  scented  the 
aroma  somewhat  at  Saratoga ;  nothing  to  speak 
of,  nothing  to  lay  hold  of ;  but  you  were  conscious 
of  a  chill  on  your  warm  loyalty.  There  were 
petty  smirks  and  sneers  and  quips  that  you  could 
feel,  and  not  see  or  hear.  You  sensed,  to  use  a 
rustic  expression,  the  presence  of  a  class  that  was 
not  palpably  treasonable,  but  rather  half  cotton. 
But  at  Canada  it  comes  out  all  wool.  The  hot 
South  opens  like  a  double  rose,  red  and  full.  The 
English  article  is  cooler  and  supercilious.  I  say 
nothing,  for  my  role  is  to  see ;  but  Halicarnassus 
and  the  Anakim  exchange  views  with  the  greatest 


GALA-DAYS.  141 

nonchalance,  in  spite  of  pokes  and  scowls  and 
various  subtabular  hints. 

"  What  is  the  news  ?  "  says  one  to  the  other, 
who  is  reading  the  morning  paper. 

"  Prospect  of  English  intervention,"  says  the 
other  to  one. 

"  Then  we  are  just  in  season  to  see  Canada 
for  the  last  time  as  a  British  province,"  says  the 
first. 

"  And  must  hurry  over  to  England,  if  we  de- 
sign to  see  St.  George  and  the  dragon  tutelizing 
Windsor  Castle,"  says  the  second;  whereupon  a 
John  Bull  yonder  looks  up  from  his  'am  and 
heggs,  and  the  very  old  dragon  himself  steps 
down  from  the  banner-folds,  and  glares  out  of 
those  irate  eyes,  and  the  ubiquitous  British  tour- 
ist, I  have  no  doubt,  took  out  his  note-book,  and 
put  on  his  glasses  and  wrote  down  for  home  con- 
sumption another  instance  of  the  insufferable  as- 
surance of  these  Yankees. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  I  ask  Halicarnassus, 
coming  in  late  to  breakfast. 

"  Only  planning  the  invasion  of  Canada,"  says 
he,  coolly,  as  if  it  were  a  mere  pre-prandial  diver- 
sion, —  all  of  which  was  not  only  rude,  but  quite 
gratuitous,  since,  apart  from  the  fact  that  we  might 
not  be  able  to  get  Canada,  I  am  sure  we  don't 
want  it.  I  am  disappointed.  I  suppose  I  had  no 
right  to  be.  Doubtless  it  was  sheer  ignorance, 
but  I  had  the  idea  that  it  was  a  great  country, 


142  GALA-DAYS. 

rich  in  promise  if  immature  in  fact,  —  a  nation  to 
be  added  to  a  nation  when  the  clock  should  strike 
the  hour,  —  a  golden  apple  to  fall  into  our  hands 
when  the  fulness  of  time  should  come.  Such  in- 
spection as  a  few  days'  observation  can  give,  such 
inspection  as  British  tourists  find  sufficient  to  settle 
the  facts  and  fate  of  nations,  leads  me  to  infer  that 
it  is  not  golden  at  all,  and  not  much  of  an  apple ; 
and  I  cannot  think  what  we  should  want  of  it,  nor 
what  we  should  do  with  it  if  we  had  it.  The 
people  are  radically  different  from  ours.  Fancy 
those  dark-eyed  beggars  and  those  calm-mouthed, 
cowy-men  in  this  eager,  self-involved  republic. 
They  might  be  annexed  to  the  United  States  a 
thousand  times  and  never  be  united,  for  I  do  not 
believe  any  process  in  the  world  would  turn  a 
French  peasant  into  a  Yankee  farmer.  Besides,  I 
cannot  see  that  there  is  anything  of  Canada  except 
a  broad  strip  along  the  St.  Lawrence  River.  It 
makes  a  great  show  on  the  map,  but  when  you 
ferret  it  out,  it  is  nothing  but  show  —  and  snow 
and  ice  and  woods  and  barrenness ;  and  I,  for  one, 
hope  we  shall  let  Canada  alone. 

"  I  think  we  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  Quebec 
to-morrow  evening,"  says  Halicarnassus,  coming 
into  the  hotel  parlor  on  Saturday  evening. 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  exclaim,  promptly  laying  an  em- 
bargo on  that  iniquity. 

"  Otherwise  we  shall  be  compelled  to  remain  till 
Monday  afternoon  at  four  o'clock." 


GALA-DAYS.  143 

"  Which  we  can  very  contentedly  do." 

"  But  lose  a  day." 

"  Keeping  the  Sabbath  holy  is  never  losing  a 
day,"  replies  his  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend, 
sententiously  and  severely,  partly  because  she 
thinks  so,  and  partly  because  she  is  well  content 
to  remain  another  day  in  Quebec. 

"  But  as  we  shall  not  start  till  five  o'clock,"  he 
lamely  pleads,  "  we  can  go  to  church  twice  like 
saints." 

"  And  begin  at  five  and  travel  like  sinners." 

"It  will  only  be  clipping  off  the  little  end  of 
Sunday." 

Now  that  is  a  principle  the  beginning  of  which 
is  as  when  one  letteth  out  water,  and  I  will  not 
tolerate  it.  Short  weights  are  an  abomination  to 
the  Lord.  I  would  rather  steal  outright  than  be 
mean.  A  highway  robber  has  some  claims  upon 
respect ;  but  a  petty,  pilfering,  tricky  Christian  is 
a  damning  spot  on  our  civilization.  Lord  Ches- 
terfield asserts  that  a  man's  reputation  for  generos- 
ity does  not  depend  so  much  on  what  he  spends, 
as  on  his  giving  handsomely  when  it  is  proper  to 
give  at  all ;  and  the  gay  lord  builded  higher  and 
struck  deeper  than  he  knew,  or  at  least  said.  If  a 
man  thinks  the  Gospel  does  not  require  the  Sab- 
bath to  be  strictly  kept,  I  have  nothing  to  say  ;  but 
if  he  pretends  to  keep  it,  let  him  keep  the  whole 
of  it.  It  takes  twenty-four  hours  to  make  a  day, 
whether  it  be  the  first  or  the  last  of  the  week.  I 


144  GALA-DAYS. 

utterly  reject  the  idea  of  setting  off  a  little  nucleus 
of  Sunday, — just  a  few  hours  of  sermon,  and  then 
evaporating  into  any  common  day.  I  want  the 
good  of  Sunday  from  beginning  to  end.  I  want 
nothing  but  Sunday  between  Saturday  and  Mon- 
day. Week-days  filtering  in  spoil  the  whole. 
What  is  the  use  of  having  a  Sabbath-day,  a  rest- 
day,  if  Mondays  and  Tuesdays  are  to  be  making 
continual  raids  upon  it  ?  What  good  do  dinner- 
party Sundays  and  travelling  Sundays  and  novel- 
reading  Sundays  do  ?  You  want  your  Sunday  for 
a  rest,  —  a  change,  —  a  breakwater.  It  is  a  day 
yielded  to  the  poetry,  to  the  aspirations,  to  the  best 
and  highest  and  holiest  part  of  man.  I  believe 
eminently  in  this  world.  I  have  no  kind  of  faith 
in  a  system  that  would  push  men  on  to  heaven 
without  passing  through  a  novitiate  on  earth. 
What  may  be  for  us  in  the  future  is  but  vaguely 
revealed,  — just  enough  to  put  hope  at  the  bottom 
of  our  Pandora's  box ;  but  our  business  is  in  this 
world.  Right  through  the  thick  and  thin  of  this 
world  our  path  lies.  Our  strength,  our  worth, 
our  happiness,  our  glory,  are  to  be  attained  through 
the  occupations  and  advantages  of  this  world.  Yet 
though  discipline,  and  not  happiness,  is  the  main 
staple  here,  it  is  not  the  only  product.  Six  days 
we  must  labor  and  do  all  work,  but  the  seventh 
is  a  holiday.  Then  we  may  drop  the  absorbing 
now,  and  revel  in  anticipated  joys,  —  lift  ourselves 
above  the  dusty  duties,  the  common  pleasures  that 


GALA-DAYS.  145 

weary  and  ensoil,  even  while  they  ennoble  us,  and 
live  for  a  little  while  in  the  bright  clear  atmos- 
phere of  another  life,  —  soothed,  comforted,  stimu- 
lated by  the  sweetness  of  celestial  harmonies. 

"  0  day  most  calm,  most  bright, 
The  fruit  of  this,  the  next  world's  bud, 
The  indorsement  of  Supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  Friend,  and  with  his  blood,— 
The  couch  of  time,  care's  balm  and  bay,  — 
The  week  were  dark  but  for  thy  light, 
Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way." 

He  is  no  friend  to  man  who  would  abate  one  jot  or 
tittle  of  our  precious  legacy. 

Afloat  in  literature  may  be  found  much  objurga- 
tion concerning  the  enforced  strictures  of  the  old 
Puritan  Sabbath.  Perhaps  there  was  a  mistake  in 
that  direction ;  but  I  was  brought  up  on  them,  and 
they  never  hurt  me  any.  At  least  I  was  never 
conscious  of  any  harm,  certainly  of  no  suffering. 
As  I  look  back,  I  see  no  awful  prisons  and  chains 
and  gloom,  but  a  pleasant  jumble  of  best  clothes, — 
I  remember  now  their  smell  when  the  drawer  was 
opened,  —  and  Sunday-school  lessons,  and  baked 
beans,  and  a  big  red  Bible  with  the  tower  of  Babel 
in  it  full  of  little  bells,  and  a  walk  to  church  two 
miles  through  the  lane,  over  the  bars,  through 
ten-acres,  over  another  pair  of  bars,  through  a 
meadow,  over  another  pair  of  bars,  by  Lubber  Hill, 
over  a  wall,  through  another  meadow,  through  the 
woods,  over  the  ridge,  by  Black  Pond,  over  a 
fence,  across  a  railroad,  over  another  fence,  through 
7  J 


146  GALA-DAYS. 

a  pasture,  through  the  long  woods,  through  a  gate, 
through  the  low  woods,  through  another  gate,  out 
upon  the  high-road  at  last.  And  then  there  was 
the  long  service,  during  which  a  child  could  think 
her  own  thoughts,  generally  ranging  no  higher 
than  the  fine  bonnets  around  her,  but  never  tired, 
never  willing  to  stay  at  home ;  and  then  Sunday 
school,  and  library-books,  and  gingerbread,  and 
afternoon  service,  and  the  long  walk  home  or  the 
longer  drive,  and  catechism  in  the  evening  and 
the  never-failing  Bible.  O  Puritan  Sabbaths ! 
doubtless  you  were  sometimes  stormy  without  and 
stormy  within  ;  but  looking  back  upon  you  from 
afar,  I  see  no  clouds,  no  snow,  but  perpetual  sun- 
shine and  blue  sky,  and  ever  eager  interest  and 
delight,  —  wild  roses  blooming  under  the  old  stone- 
wall, wild  bees  humming  among  the  blackberry- 
bushes,  tremulous  sweet  columbines  skirting  the 
vocal  woods,  wild  geraniums  startling  their  shad- 
owy depths ;  and  I  hear  now  the  rustle  of  dry 
leaves,  bravely  stirred  by  childish  feet,  just  as  they 
used  to  rustle  in  the  October  afternoons  of  long 
ago.  Sweet  Puritan  Sabbaths  !  breathe  upon  a 
restless  world  your  calm,  still  breath,  and  keep 
us  from  the  evil ! 

Somewhat  after  this  fashion  I  harangued  Hali- 
carnassus,  who  was  shamed  into  silence,  but  not 
turned  from  his  purpose  ;  but  the  next  morning  he 
came  up  from  below  after  breakfast,  and  informed 
me,  with  an  air  mingled  of  the  condescension  of  the 


GALA-DA  YS.  147 

monarch  and  the  resignation  of  the  martyr,  that,  as 
I  was  so  scrupulous  about  travelling  on  the  Sab- 
bath, he  had  concluded  not  to  go  till  Monday  after- 
noon. No,  I  said,  I  did  not  M'ish  to  assume  the 
conduct  of  affairs.  I  had  given  my  protest,  and 
satisfied  my  own  conscience  ;  but  I  was  not  head 
of  the  party,  and  did  not  choose  to  assume  the 
responsibility  of  its  movements.  I  did  not  think 
it  right  to  travel  on  Sunday,  but  neither  do  I  think 
it  right  for  one  person  to  compel  a  whole  party  to 
change  its  plans  out  of  deference  to  his  scruples. 
So  I  insisted  that  I  would  not  cause  detention. 
But  Halicarnassus  insisted  that  he  would  not  have 
my  conscience  forced.  Now  it  would  seem  nat- 
ural that  so  tender  and  profound  a  regard  for  my 
scruples  would  have  moved  me  to  a  tender  and 
profound  gratitude  ;  but  nobody  understands  Hal- 
icarnassus except  myself.  He  is  a  dark  lane,  full 
of  crooks  and  turns,  —  a  labyrinth  which  nobody 
can  thread  without  the  clew.  That  clew  I  hold. 
I  know  him.  I  can  walk  right  through  him  in 
the  darkest  night  without  any  lantern.  He  is 
fully  aware  of  it.  He  knows  that  it  is  utterly 
futile  for  him  to  attempt  to  deceive  me,  and  yet, 
with  the  infatuation  of  a  lunatic,  he  is  continually 
producing  his  flimsy  little  fictions  for  me  as  con- 
tinually to  blow  away.  For  instance,  when  we 
were  walking  down  the  path  to  the  steps  of  Mont- 
morency,  Grande  called  out  in  delight  at  some 
new  and  beautiful  white  flowers  beside  the  path. 
What  were  they?  I  did  not  know.  What  are 


148  GALA-DAYS. 

they,  Halicarnassus  ?  "  Ah  !  wax-flowers,"  says 
he,  coming  up,  and  Grande  passed  on  content,  as 
would  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  ;  but  an  in- 
describable something  in  his  air  convinced  me  that 
he  was  not  drawing  on  his  botany  for  his  facts.  I 
determined  to  get  at  the  root  of  the  matter. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  I  asked,  "  that  the  name  of 
those  flowers  is  wax-flowers  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied.     "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean,"  I  persisted,  confirmed  in  my 
suspicions  by  his  remarkable  question,  "  that  you 
know  that  they  are  wax-flowers,  or  that  you  do  not 
know  that  they  are  not  wax-flowers? " 

"  Why,  look  at  'em  for  yourself.  Can't  you  see 
with  your  own  eyes  ?  "  he  ejaculated,  attempting 
to  walk  on. 

I  planted  myself  full  in  front  of  him.  "  Hali- 
carnassus, one  step  further  except  over  my  lifeless 
body  you  do  not  go,  until  you  tell  me  whether 
those  are  or  are  not  wax-flowers  ? " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  brought  to  bay  at  last,  and 
sheepishly  enough  whisking  off  the  heads  of  a 
dozen  or  two  with  his  cane,  "  if  they  are  not  that, 
they  are  something  else."  There  ! 

So  when  he  showed  his  delicate  consideration 
for  my  conscience,  I  was  not  grateful,  but  watch- 
ful. I  detected  under  the  glitter  something  that 
was  not  gold.  I  made  very  indifferent  and  guard- 
ed acknowledgments,  and  silently  detached  a  corps 
of  observation.  In  five  minutes  it  came  out  that 
no  train  left  Quebec  on  Sunday ! 


V. 


O  we  remained  over  Sunday  in  Quebec, 
and  in  the  morning  attended  service  at 
the  French  Cathedral ;  and   as  we  all 
had  the  American  accomplishments  of 
Nonne,  a  Prioresse,"  who  spoke  French 

"  ful  fayre  and  fetisly 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bo  we, 
The  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe," 

it  may  be  inferred  that  we  were  greatly  edified  by 
the  service.  From  the  French,  as  one  cannot 
have  too  much  of  a  good  "thing,  we  proceeded 
without  pause  to  the  English  Cathedral,  —  cathe- 
dral by  courtesy?  —  and  heard  a  sermon  by  a 
Connecticut  bishop,  which,  however  good,  was  a 
disappointment,  because  we  wanted  the  flavor  of 
the  soil.  And  after  dinner  we  walked  on  the  high 
and  sightly  Durham  terrace,  and  then  went  to  the 
Scotch  church,  joined  in  Scotch  singing,  and  heard 
a  broad  Scotch  sermon.  So  we  tried  to  worship 
as  well  as  we  could  ;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  be 
sight-seeing  where  there  are  sights  to  see,  and  for 


150  GALA-DAYS. 

that  matter  I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  harm  in 
it.  You  don't  go  to  a  show  ;  but  if  the  church  and 
the  people  and  the  minister  are  all  a  show,  what 
can  you  do  about  it? 

As  I  sat  listening  in  the  French  Cathedral  to  a 
service  I  but  a  quarter  comprehended,  the  residual 
three  fourths  of  me  went  wandering  at  its  own 
sweet  will,  and  queried  why  it  is  that  a  battle- 
ground should  so  stir  the  blood,  while  a  church 
suffers  one  to  pass  calmly  and  coldly  out  through 
its  portals.  I  do  not  believe  it  is  total  depravity ; 
for  though  the  church  stands  for  what  is  good,  the 
battle-field  does  not  stand  for  all  that  is  bad.  The 
church  does  indeed  represent  man's  highest  aspii-a- 
tions,  his  longings  for  holiness  and  heaven.  But 
the  battle-field  speaks  not,  I  think,  of  retrogression. 
It  is  in  the  same  line  as  the  church.  It  stands  in 
the  upward  path.  The  church  and  its  influences 
are  the  dew  and  sunshine  and  spring  rains  that 
nourish  a  gentle,  wholesome  growth.  Battle  is  the 
mighty  convulsion  that  marks  a  geologic  era.  The 
fierce  throes  of  battle  upheave  a  continent.  The 
church  clothes  it  with  soft  alluvium,  adorns  it  with 
velvet  verdure,  enriches  it  with  fruits  and  grains, 
glorifies  it  with  the  beauty  of  blooms.  In  the 
struggle  all  seems  to  be  chaos  and  destruction ;  but 
after  each  shock  the  elevation  is  greater.  Perhaps 
it  is  that  always  the  concussion  of  the  shock  im- 
presses, while  the  soft,  slow,  silent  constancy  accus- 
toms us  and  is  unheeded ;  but  I  think  there  is 


GALA-DA  YS.  151 

another  cause.  In  any  church  you  are  not  sure 
of  sincerity,  of  earnestness.  Church  building  and 
church  organization  are  the  outgrowth  of  man's 
wants,  and  mark  his  upward  path  ;  but  you  do  not 
know  of  a  certainty  whether  this  individual  edi- 
fice represents  life,  or  vanity,  ostentation,  custom, 
thrift.  You  look  around  upon  the  worshippers  in 
a  church,  and  you  are  not  usually  thrilled.  You 
do  not  see  the  presence  and  prevalence  of  an 
absorbing,  exclusive  idea.  Devotion  does  not  fix 
them.  They  are  diffusive,  observant,  often  appar- 
ently indifferent,  sometimes  positively  exhibitive. 
They  adjust  their  draperies,  whisper  to  their 
neighbors,  look  vacant  about  the  mouth.  The 
beat  of  a  drum  or  the  bleat  of  a  calf  outside 
disturbs  and  distracts  them.  An  untimely  comer 
dissipates  their  attention.  They  are  floating,  loose, 
incoherent,  at  the  mercy  of  trifles.  The  most 
inward,  vital  part  of  religion  does  not  often  show 
itself  in  church,  though  it  be  nursed  and  nurtured 
there.  So  when  we  go  into  an  empty  church,  it 
is  —  empty.  Hopes,  fears,  purposes,  ambitions,  the 
eager  hours  of  men,  do  not  pervade  and  penetrate 
those  courts.  The  walls  do  not  flame  with  the 
fire  of  burning  hearts.  The  white  intensity  of  life 
may  never  have  glowed  within  them.  No  fragrance 
of  intimate,  elemental  passion  lingers  still.  No  fine 
aroma  of  being  clings  through  the  years  and  suf- 
fuses you  with  its  impalpable  sweetness,  its  subtile 
strength.  You  are  not  awed,  because  the  Awful 


152  GALA-DA  YS. 

is  not  there.  But  on  the  battle-field  you  have  no 
doubt.  Imagination  roams  at  will,  but  in  the 
domains  of  faith.  Realities  have  been  there,  and 
their  ghosts  walk  up  and  down  forever.  There 
men  met  men  in  deadly  earnest.  Right  or  wrong, 
they  stood  face  to  face  with  the  unseen,  the  inevi- 
table. The  great  problem  awaited  them,  and  they 
bent  fiery  souls  to  its  solution.  But  one  idea 
moved  them  all  and  wholly.  They  threw  them- 
selves body  and  soul  into  the  raging  furnace.  All 
minor  distractions  were  burned  out.  Every  self 
was  fused  and  lost  in  one  single  molten  flood, 
dashing  madly  against  its  barrier  to  whelm  in 
rapturous  victory  or  be  broken  in  sore  defeat. 

And  it  is  earnestness  that  utilizes  the  good.  It 
is  sincerity  that  makes  the  bad  not  infernal. 

Monday  gave  us  the  Indian  village,  —  more  In- 
dian-y  than  village-y,  —  and  the  Falls  of  Lorette. 
For  a  description,  see  the  Falls  of  Montmorency. 
Lorette  is  more  beautiful,  I  think,  more  wild,  more 
varied,  more  sympathetic,  —  not  so  precipitous, 
not  so  concentrated,  not  so  forceful,  but  more 
picturesque,  poetic,  sylvan,  lovely.  The  descent 
is  long,  broad,  and  broken.  The  waters  flash 
and  foam  over  the  black  rocks  like  a  white  lace 
veil  over  an  Ethiop  belle,  and  then  rush  on  to  other 
woodland  scenes. 

We  left  Quebec  ignobly,  crossing  the  river  in  a 
steamer  to  which  the  eminently  English  adjective 
nasty  can  fitly  apply,  —  a  wheezy,  sputtering, 


GALA-DAYS.  153 

black,  crazy  old  craft,  muddy  enough  throughout 
to  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  river  and  sucked 
up  again  half  a  dozen  times.  With  care  of  the 
luggage,  shawls,  hackmen,  and  tickets,  we  all  con- 
trived to  become  separated,  and  I  found  myself 
crushed  into  one  corner  of  a  little  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta,  with  no  chair  to  sit  in,  no  space  to  stand 
in,  and  no  air  to  breathe,  on  the  sultriest  day  that 
Canada  had  known  for  years.  What  windows 
there  were  opened  by  swinging  inwards  and  up- 
wards, which  they  could  not  do  for  the  press,  and 
after  you  had  got  them  up,  there  was  no  way  to 
keep  them  there  except  to  stand  and  hold  them 
at  arm's  length.  So  we  waddled  across  the  river. 
Now  we  have  all  read  of  shipwrecks,  and  the 
moral  grandeur  of  resignation  and  calmness  which 
they  have  developed.  We  have  read  of  drowning, 
and  the  gorgeous  intoxication  of  the  process.  But 
there  is  neither  grandeur  nor  gorgeousness  in 
drowning  in  a  tub.  If  you  must  sink,  you  at  least 
would  like  to  go  down  gracefully,  in  a  stately  ship, 
in  mid-ocean,  in  a  storm  and  uproar,  bravely, 
decorously,  sublimely,  as  the  soldiers  in  Ravens- 
hoe,  drawn  up  in  line,  with  their  officers  at  their 
head,  waving  to  each  other  calm  farewells.  I  defy 
anybody  to  be  graceful  or  heroic  in  plumping 
down  to  the  bottom  of  a  city  river  amid  a  jam  of 
heated,  hurried,  panting,  angry  passengers,  moun- 
tains of  trunks,  carpet-bags,  and  indescribable 
plunder,  and  countless  stratifications  of  coagulated, 
7* 


154  GALA-DAYS. 

glutinous,  or  pulverized  mud.  To  the  credit  of 
human  nature  it  must  be  said,  that  the  sufferers 
kept  the  peace  with  each  other,  though  vigorously 
denouncing  the  unknown  author  of  all  their  woes. 
After  an  age  of  suffocation  and  fusion,  there  came 
a  stir  which  was  a  relief  because  it  was  a  stir. 
Nobody  seemed  to  know  cause  or  consequence, 
but  everybody  moved ;  so  I  moved,  and  bobbing, 
fumbling,  groping  through  Egyptian  darkness, 
stumbling  over  the  beams,  crawling  under  the 
boilers,  creeping  through  the  steam-pipes,  scalping 
ourselves  against  the  funnels,  we  finally  came  out 
gasping  into  the  blessed  daylight.  "  Here  you 
are  I  "  exclaimed  cheerily  the  voice  of  Halicarnas- 
sus,  as  I  went  winking  and  blinking  in  the  unac- 
customed light.  "  I  began  to  think  I  had  lost  my 
cane,"  —  he  had  given  it  to  me  when  he  went  to 
look  up  the  trunks.  "Why?"  I  asked  faintly, 
not  yet  fully  recovered  from  my  long-  incarceration. 
"  It  is  so  long  since  I  saw  you,  that  I  thought  you 
must  have  fallen  overboard,"  was  his  gratifying 
reply.  I  was  still  weak,  but  I  gathered  up  my 
remaining  strength  and  plunged  the  head  of  the 
cane,  a  dog's  head  it  was,  into  his  heart.  His 
watch,  or  his  Bible,  or  something  interposed,  and 
rescued  him  from  the  fate  he  merited  ;  and  then 
we  rode  over  the  miserable,  rickety  farther  end 
of  the  Grand  Trunk  Railway,  and  reached  Island 
Pond  at  midnight,  —  in  time  to  see  the  magnifi- 
cent Northern  Lights  flashing,  flickering,  wavering, 


GALA-DAYS.  155 

streaming,  and  darting  over  the  summer  sky  ;  and 
as  the  people  in  the  Pond  were  many  and  the 
rooms  few,  we  had  plenty  of  time  to  anjoy  the 
sight.  It  was  exciting,  fascinating,  almost  bewil- 
dering ;  and  feeling  the  mystic  mood,  I  proposed  to 
write  a  poem  on  it,  to  which  Halicarnassus  said  he 
had  not  the  smallest  objection,  provided  he  should 
not  be  held  liable  to  read  it,  adding,  as  he  offered 
me  his  pencil,  that  it  was  just  the  thing,  —  he 
wanted  some  narcotic  to  counteract  the  stimulus 
of  the  fresh  cold  air  after  the  long  and  heated  ride, 
or  he  should  get  no  sleep  for  the  night. 

I  do  not  believe  there  is  in  our  beautiful  but 
distracted  country  a  single  person  who  is  the  sub- 
ject of  so  cold-blooded,  unprovoked,  systematic, 
malignant  neglect  and  abuse  on  any  one  point 'as 
the  writer  of  these  short  and  simple  annals  on  this. 
If  there  is  one  thing  in  the  whole  range  of  human 
possibilities  on  which  I  pride  myself,  it  is  my 
poetry.  I  cannot  do  much  at  prose.  That  re- 
quires a  depth,  an  equilibrium,  a  comprehension,  a 
aagacity,  a  culture,  which  I  do  not  possess  and 
cannot  command.  Nor  in  the  domestic  drudgery 
line,  nor  the  parlor  ornament  line,  nor  the  social 
philanthropic  line,  nor  the  ministering  angel  line, 
can  I  be  said  to  have  a  determinate  value.  As  an 
investment,  as  an  economic  institution,  as  an  avail- 
able force,  I  suppose  I  must  be  reckoned  a  failure ; 
but  I  do  write  lovely  poetry.  That  I  insist  on : 
and  yet,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  of  that  one 


156  GALA-DAYS. 

little  ewe  lamb  have  I  been  repeatedly  and  re- 
morselessly robbed  by  an  unscrupulous  public,  and 
a  still  mjore  unscrupulous  private.  Whenever  I 
come  into  the  room  with  a  sheet  of  manuscript  in 
my  hand,  Halicamassus  glances  at  it,  and  if  the 
lines  are  not  all  of  the  same  length,  he  finds  at 
once  that  he  has  to  go  and  shovel  a  path,  or  bank 
up  the  cellar,  or  get  in  the  wood,  unless  I  have 
taken  the  precaution  to  lock  the  door  and  put  the 
key  in  my  pocket.  When,  by  force  or  fraud,  I 
have  compelled  a  reluctant  audience,  he  is  sure  to 
strike  in  by  the  time  I  have  got  to  the  second 
stanza,  breaking  right  into  the  middle  of  a  figure 
or  a  rapture,  and  asking  how  much  more  there  is 
of  it.  '  I  know  of  few  things  better  calculated  to 
extinguish  the  poetic  fire  than  this.  I  regret  to  be 
obliged  to  say  that  Halicamassus,  by  his  persist- 
ent hostility,  —  I  believe  I  may  say,  persecu- 
tion,—  has  disseminated  his  plebeian  prejudices 
over  a  very  large  portion  of  our  joint  community, 
and  my  muse  consequently  is  held  in  the  smallest 
esteem.  Not  but  that  whenever  there  is  a  church 
to  be  dedicated,  or  a  centennial  to  be  celebrated, 
or  a  picnic  to  be  sung,  or  a  fair  to  be  closed,  I  am 
called  on  to  furnish  the  -poetry,  which,  with  that 
sweetness  of  disposition  which  forms  a  rare  but 
fitting  background  to  poetic  genius,  I  invariably 
do,  to  be  praised  and  thanked  for  a  week,  and 
then  to  be  again  as  before  told,  upon  the  slightest 
provocation,  "  You  better  not  meddle  with  verses." 


GALA-DAYS.  157 

"  You  stick  to  prose."  "  Verses  are  not  your 

forte."  "  You  can't  begin  to  come  up  with , 

and ,  and ." 

On  that  auroral  night,  crowned  with  the  splen- 
dors of  the  wild  mystery  of  the  North,  I  am  sure 
that  the  muse  awoke  and  stirred  in  the  depths  of 
my  soul,  and  needed  but  a  word  of  recognition  and 
encouragement  to  put  on  her  garland  and  singing 
robes,  and  pour  forth  a  strain  which  the  world 
would  not  have  willingly  let  die,  and  which  I 
would  have  transferred  to  these  pages.  But  that 
word  was  not  spoken.  Scorn  and  sarcasm  usurped 
the  throne  of  gentle  cherishing,  and  the  golden 
moment  passed  away  forever.  It  is  as  well.  Per- 
haps it  is  better ;  for  on  second  thought,  I  recollect 
that  the  absurd  prejudice  I  have  mentioned  has 
extended  itself  to  the  editor  of  this  Magazine,*  who 
jerks  me  down  with  a  pitiless  pull  whenever  I 
would  soar  into  the  empyrean,  —  ruling  out  with 
a  rod  of  iron  every  shred  of  poetry  from  my  pages, 
till  I  am  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  smuggling  it 
in  by  writing  it  in  the  same  form  as  the  rest ; 
when,  as  he  tells  poetry  only  by  the  capitals  and 
exclamation-points,  he  thinks  it  is  prose,  and  lets 
it  go. 

Here,  if  I  may  be  allowed,  I  should  like  to  make 
a  digression.  In  an  early  stage  of  my  journeying, 
I  spoke  of  the  pleasure  I  had  taken  in  reading 
"  The  Betrothal "  and  "  The  Espousals."  I  can- 

*  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


158  GALA-DAYS. 

not  suppose  that  it  is  of  any  consequence  to  the 
world  whether  I  think  well  or  ill  of  a  poem,  but 
the  only  way  in  which  the  world  will  ever  come 
out  right  is  by  every  one's  putting  himself  right ; 
and  I  don't  wish  even  my  influence  to  seem  to 
be  thrown  in  favor  of  so  objectionable  a  book  as 
"  Faithful  Forever,"  a  continuation  of  the  former 
poems  by  the  same  author.  Coventry  Patmore's 
books  generally  are  made  up  of  poetry  and  prattle, 
but  the  poetry  makes  you  forgive  the  prattle.  The 
tender,  strong,  wholesome  truths  they  contain 
steady  the  frail  bark  through  dangerous  waters ; 
but  "  Faithful  Forever  "  is  wrong,  false,  and  per- 
nicious, root  and  branch,  and  a  thorough  misno- 
mer besides.  Frederic  loves  Honoria,  who  loves 
and  marries  Arthur,  leaving  Frederic  out  in  the 
cold  ;  whereupon  Frederic  turns  round  and  mar- 
ries Jane,  knowing  all  the  while  that  he  does  not 
love  her  and  does  love  Honoria.  What  kind  of  a 
Faithful  Forever  is  this  ?  A  man  cannot  love  two 
women  simultaneously,  whatever  he  may  do  con- 
secutively. If  he  ceases  to  love  the  first,  he  is 
surely  not  faithful  forever.  If  he  does  not  cease  to 
love  her,  he  is  false  forever  to  the  second,  —  and 
worse  than  false.  Marrying  from  pique  or  indif- 
ference or  disappointment  is  one  of  the  greatest 
crimes  that  can  be  committed,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
greatest  blunders  that  can  be  made.  The  man 
who  can  do  such  a  thing  is  a  liar  and  a  perjurer. 
I  can  understand  that  people  should  give  up  the 


GALA-DA  YS.  159 

people  they  love,  but  there  is  no  possible  shadow 
of  excuse  for  their  taking  people  whom  they  don't 
love.  It  is  no  matter  how  inferior  Jane  may  be  to 
Frederic.  A  woman  can  feel  a  good  many  things 
that  she  cannot  analyze  or  understand,  and  there 
never  yet  was  a  woman  so  stupid  that  she  did  not 
know  whether  or  not  her  husband  loved  her,  and 
was  not  either  stricken  or  savage  to  find  that  he 
did  not.  No  woman  ever  was  born  with  a  heart 
so  small  that  anything  less  than  the  whole  of  her 
husband's  heart  could  fill  it. 

Moreover,  apart  from  unhappy  consequences, 
there  is  a  right  and  a  wrong  about  it.  How  dare 
a  man  stand  up  solemnly  before  God  and  his  fel- 
lows with  a  lie  in  his  right  hand  ?  and  if  he  does 
do  it,  how  dare  a  poet  or  a  novelist  step  up  and 
glorify  him  in  it  ?  The  man  who  commits  a  crime 
does  not  do  so  much  mischief  as  the  man  who 
turns  the  criminal  into  a  hero.  Frederic  Graham 
did  a  weak,  wicked,  mean,  and  cowardly  deed,  not 
being  in  his  general  nature  weak,  wicked,  mean, 
or  cowardly,  and  was  allowed  to  blunder  on  to  a 
tolerable  sort  of  something  like  happiness  in  the 
end.  No  one  has  a  right  to  complain,  for  aU  of  us 
get  a  great  deal  more  and  better  than  .we  deserve. 
We  have  no  right  to  complain  of  Providence,  but 
we  have  a  right  to  complain  of  the  poet  who  comes 
up  and  says  not  a  word  in  reprobation  of  the  mean- 
ness and  cowardice,  not  a  word  of  the  cruelty  in- 
flicted upon  Jane,  nor  the  wrong  done  to  Ms  own 


160  GALA-DAYS. 

soul ;  but  veils  the  wickedness,  excites  our  sympa- 
thy and  pity,  and  in  fact  makes  Frederic  out  to  be 
a  sort  of  sublime  and  suffering  martyr.  He  was 
no  martyr  at  all.  Nobody  is  a  martyr,  if  he  cannot 
help  himself.  If  Frederic  had  the  least  spirit  of 
martyrdom,  he  would  have  breasted  his  sorrow 
manfully  and  alone.  Instead  of  which,  he  shuffled 
himself  and  his  misery  upon  poor  simple  Jane,  get- 
ting all  the  solace  he  could  from  her,  and  leading 
her  a  wretched,  almost  hopeless  life  for  years. 
This  is  what  we  are  to  admire !  This  is  the 
knight  without  reproach !  This  is  to  be  Faithful 
Forever !  I  suppose  Coventry  Patmore  thinks  Fred- 
eric is  to  be  commended  because  he  did  not  break 
into  Honoria's  house  and  run  away  with  her. 
That  is  the  only  thing  he  could  have  done  worse 
than  he  did  do,  and  that  I  have  no  doubt  he 
would  have  done  if  he  could.  I  have  no  faith 
in  the  honor  or  the  virtue  of  men  or  women  who 
will  marry  where  they  do  not  love.  I  think  it  is 
just  as  sinful  —  and  a  thousand  times  as  vile  — 
to  marry  unlovingly,  as  to  love  unlawfully.* 

There  is  this  about  mountains,  —  you  cannot  get 
away  from  them.  Low  country  may  be  beautiful, 
yet  you  may  be  preoccupied  and  pass  through  it 
or  by  it  without  consciousness  ;  but  the  mountains 

*  Some  one  just  here  suggests  that  it  was  Jane  who  was  faithful 
forever,  not  Frederic.  That  indeed  makes  the  title  appropriate,  but 
does  not  relieve  the  atrocity  of  the  plot. 


GALA-DAYS.  161 

rise,  and  there  is  no  escape.  Representatives  of  an 
unseen  force,  voices  from  an  infinite  past,  benefac- 
tors of  the  valleys,  themselves  unblest,  almoners  of 
a  charity  which  leaves  them  in  the  heights  indeed, 
but  the  heights  of  eternal  desolation,  raised  above 
all  sympathies,  all  tenderness,  shining  but  repel- 
lent, grand  and  cold,  mighty  and  motionless,  —  we 
stand  before  them  hushed.*  They  fix  us  with  their 
immutability.  They  shroud  us  with  their  Egyp- 
tian gloom.  They  sadden.  They  awe.  They 
overpower.  Yet  far  off  how  different  is  the  im- 
pression !  Bright  and  beautiful,  evanescent  yet 
unchanging,  lovely  as  a  spirit  with  their  clear,  soft 
outlines  and  misty  resplendence  !  Exquisitely  says 
Winthrop :  "  There  is  nothing  so  refined  as  the 
outline  of  a  distant  mountain  ;  even  a  rose-leaf  is 
stiff-edged  and  harsh  in  comparison.  Nothing  else 
has  that  definite  indefiniteness,  that  melting  per- 
manence, that  evanescing  changelessness.  [I  did 
not  know  that  I  was  using  his  terms.]  Clouds  in 
vain  strive  to  imitate  it ;  they  are  made  of  slighter 
stuff;  they  can  be  blunt  or  ragged,  but  they 
cannot  have  that  solid  positiveness.  Even  in  its 
cloudy,  distant  fairness,  there  is  a  concise,  emphatic 
reality  altogether  uncloudlike."  • 

Seeing  them  from  afar,  lovely  rather  than  terri- 
ble, we  feel  that  though  between  the  mountain  and 
its  valley,  with  much  friendly  service  and  continual 
intercourse,  there  can  be  no  real  communion,  still 
the  mountain  is  not  utterly  lonely,  but  has  yonder 


162  GALA-DAYS. 

in  the  east  its  solace,  and  in  the  north  a  compan- 
ion, and  over  toward  the  west  its  coterie.  Soli- 
tary but  to  the  lowly-living,  in  its  own  sphere 
there  is  immortal  companionship,  and  this  vast  hall 
of  the  heavens,  and  many  a  draught  of  nectar 
borne  by  young  Ganymede. 

The  Alpine  House  seems  to  be  the  natural 
caravansary  for  Grand  "Trunk  travellers,  being 
accessible  from  the  station  without  the  intervention 
of  so  much  as  an  omnibus,  and  being  also  within 
easy  reach  of  many  objects  of  interest.  Here, 
therefore,  we  lay  over  awhile  to  strike  out  across 
the  mountains  and  into  the  valleys,  and  to  gather 
health  and  serenity  for  the  weeks  that  were  to 
come,  with  their  urgent  claims  for  all  of  both  that 
could  be  commanded. 

Eastern  Massachusetts  is  a  very  pretty  place  to 
live  in,  and  the  mutual  admiration  society  is  uni- 
versally agreed  by  its  members  to  be  the  very  best 
society  on  this  continent.  Nevertheless,  by  too  long 
and  close  adherence  to  that  quarter  of  the  globe, 
one  comes  to  forget  how  the  world  was  made,  and, 
in  fact,  that  it  ever  was  made.  We  silently  take 
it  for  granted.  It  was  always  there.  Smooth,  smil- 
ing plains,  gentle  fulls,  verdurous  slopes,  blue,  calm 
streams,  and  softly  wooded  banks,  —  a  courteous, 
well-bred  earth  it  is,  and  we  forget  that  it  has  not 
been  so  from  the  beginning.  But  here  among  the 
mountains,  Genesis  finds  exegesis.  We  stand 
aro^d  the  primeval  convulsions  of  matter,  —  the 


GALA-DAYS.  163 

first  fierce  throes  of  life.  Marks  of  the  struggle 
still  linger ;  nay,  the  struggle  itself  is  not  soothed 
quite  away.  No  more  unexceptionable  surfaces, 
but  yawns  and  fissures,  chasms  and  precipices, 
deep  gashes  in  the  hills,  hills  bursting  up  from 
the  plains,  rocks  torn  from  their  granite  beds 
and  tossed  hither  and  thither  in  some  grand  storm 
of  Titan  wrath,  rivers  with  no  equal  majesty, 
but  narrow,  deep,  elfish,  rising  anot  falling  in  wild 
caprice,  playing  mad  pranks  with  their  uncertain 
shores,  treacherous,  reckless,  obstreperous.  Here 
we  see  the  changes  actually  going  on.  The  earth 
is  still  a-making.  More  than  one  river,  scorning 
its  channel,  has,  within  the  memory  of  man,  hewn 
out  for  itself  another,  and  taken  undisputed,  if 
not  undisturbed  possession.  The  Peabody  River, 
which  rolls  modestly  enough  now,  seeming,  in- 
deed, a  mere  thread  of  brook  dancing  through  a 
rocky  bed  by  far  too  large  for  it,  will  by  and  by, 
when  the  rains  come,  rise  and  roar  and  rush  with 
such  impetuosity  that  these  great  water-worn 
stones,  now  bleaching  quietly  in  the  sun,  shall 
be  wrenched  up  from  their  resting-places,  and 
whirled  down  the  river  with  such  fury  and  up- 
roar that  the  noise  of  their  crashing  and  rolling 
shall  break  in  upon  your  dreams  at  night.  Wild 
River,  a  little  farther  down,  you  may  ford  almost 
dry-shod,  and  in  four  hours  it  shall  reach  such 
heights  and  depths  as  might  upbear  our  mightiest 
man-of-war.  Many  and  many  a  gully,  half  choked 


164  GALA-DAYS. 

with  stones  and  briers,  lurks  under  the  base  of  an 
overtopping  hill,  and  shows  where  a  forgotten  Un- 
dine lived  and  loved.  The  hills  still  bear  the  scars 
of  their  wounds.  No  soft-springing  greenness 
veils  the  tortuous  processes.  Uncompromising  and 
terrible,  the  marks  of  their  awful  rending,  the 
agony  of  their  fiery  birth,  still  remain.  Time,  the 
destroyer  of  man's  works,  is  the  perfecter  of  God's. 
These  ravages  are  not  Time's ;  they  are  the  doings 
of  an  early  force,  beneficent,  but  dreadful.  It  is 
Time's  to  soothe  and  adorn. 

We  connect  the  idea  of  fixity  with  the  moun- 
tains, but  they  seem  to  me  to  be  continually  pirou- 
etting with  each  other, —  exchanging  or  entirely 
losing  their  identity.  You  are  in  the  Alpine  Val- 
ley. Around  you  stand  Mount  Hayes,  so  named  in 
honor  of  a  worthy  housekeeper ;  the  Imp,  sobri- 
quet of  a  winsome  and  roguish  little  girl,  who  once 
made*  the  house  gay ;  the  Pilot  range,  —  because 
they  pilot  the  Androscoggin  down  to  the  sea,  says 
one  to  whom  I  never  appeal  in  vain  for  facts  or 
reasons  ;  Mount  Madison,  lifting  his  shining  head 
beyond  an  opening  niched  for  him  in  the  woods  of 
a  higli  hill-top  by  Mr.  Hamilton  Willis  of  Boston, 
whom  let  all  men  thank.  I  thanked  him  in  my 
heart  every  morning,  noon,  and  night,  looking  up 
from  my  seat  at  table  to  that  distant  peak,  where 
otherwise  I  should  have  seen  only  a  monotonous 
forest  line.  Over  against  the  sunset  is  Mount  Mo- 
riah,  and  Carter,  and  Surprise.  You  know  them 


GALA-DAYS.  165 

well.  You  can  call  them  all  by  name.  But  you 
have  no  sooner  turned  a  corner  than  —  where  are 
they  ?  Gone, —  all  changed.  Every  line  is  altered, 
every  contour  new.  Spurs  have  become  knobs. 
Peaks  are  ridges ;  summits,  terraces.  Madison 
probably  has  disappeared,  and  some  Adams  or 
Jefferson  rises  before  you  in  unabashed  grandeur. 
Carter  and  the  Imp  have  hopped  around  to  another 
point  of  the  compass.  All  the  lesser  landmarks, 
as  the  old  song  says, 

"  First  upon  the  heel-tap,  then  upon  the  toe, 
Wheel  about,  and  turn  about,  and  do  just  so." 

Your  topography  is  entirely  dislocated.  You  must 
begin  your  acquaintance  anew.  Fresh  lines  and 
curves,  new  forms  and  faces  and  chameleon  tints, 
thrust  you  off  from  the  secrets  of  the  Storm- Kings. 
While  you  fancy  yourself  to  be  battering  down  the 
citadel,  you  are  but  knocking  feebly  at  the'  out- 
works. You  have  caught  a  single  phase,  and  their 
name  is  legion.  Infinite  as  light,  infinite  as  form, 
infinite  as  motion,  so  infinite  are  the  mountains. 
Purple  and  intense  against  the  glowing  sunset  sky, 
the  Pilot  range  curves  its  strong  outlines,  or  shim- 
mers steely-blue  in  the  noonday  haze.  Day  unto 
day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  night  showeth 
knowledge  of  their  ever-vanishing  and  ever-re- 
turning splendors.  New  every  morning,  fresh 
every  evening,  we  fancy  each  pageant  fairer  and 
finer  than  the  last.  Every  summer  hour,  a  mes- 


166  GALA-DAYS. 

senger  from  heaven,  is  charged  with  the  waiting 
landscape,  and  drapes  it  with  its  own  garment  of 
woven  light,  celestial  broidery.  Sunshine  crowns 
the  crests,  and  stamps  their  kinship  to  the  skies. 
Shadows  nestle  in  the  dells,  flit  over  the  ridges, 
hide  under  the  overhanging  cliffs,  to  be  chased  out 
iu  gleeful  frolic  by  the  slant  sunbeams  of  the  mel- 
low afternoon.  Clouds  and  vapors  and  unseen 
hands  of  heavdh  flood  the  hills  with  beauty.  They 
have  drunk  in  the  warmth  and  life  of  the  sun, 
they  quiver  beneath  his  burning  glance,  they  lie 
steeped  in  color,  gorgeous,  tremulous,  passionate ; 
rosy  red  dropping  away  into  pale  gold,  emeralds 
dim  and  sullen  where  they  ripple  down  towards 
the  darkness,  dusky  browns  and  broad  reaches  of 
blue-black  massiveness,  till  the  silent  starlight 
wraps  the  scene  with  blessing,  and  the  earth  sit- 
teth  still  and  at  rest. 

On  such  an  evening,  never  to  be  forgotten,  we 
stood  alone  with  the  night.  Day  had  gone  softly, 
evening  came  slowly.  There  was  no  speech  nor 
language,  only  hope  and  passion  and  purpose  died 
gently  out.  Individualities  were  not,  and  we  stood 
at  one  with  the  universe,  hand  in  hand  with  the 
immortals,  silent,  listening.  It  was  as  if  the 
heavens  should  give  up  their  secret,  and  smite  us 
with  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Suddenly,  un- 
heralded, up  over  the  summit  of  Mount  Moriah 
came  the  full  moon,  a  silver  disc,  a  lucent,  steady 
orb,  globular  and  grand,  filling  the  valleys  with 


GALA-DAYS.  167 

light,  touching  all  things  into  a  hushed  and  dark- 
ling splendor.  To  us,  standing  alone,  far  from 
sight  of  human  face  or  sound  of  human  voice,  it 
seemed  the  censer  of  God,  swung  out  to  receive 
the  incense  of  the  world. 

Multifold  mists  join  hands  with  the  light  to-play 
fantastic  tricks  upon  these  mighty  monarchs.  The 
closing  day  is  tender,  bringing  sacrifice  and  obla- 
tion ;  but  the  day  of  flitting  clouds  and  frequent 
showers  riots  in  changing  joys.  Every  subordinate 
eminence  that  has  arrogated  to  itself  the  sublimity 
of  the  distant  mountain,  against  whose  rocky  sides 
it  lay  lost,  is  unmasked  by  the  vapors  that  gather 
behind  it  and  reveal  its  low-lying  outlines.  Every 
little  dimple  of  the  hills  has  its  chalice  of  mountain 
wine.  The  mist  stretches  above  the  ridge,  a  long, 
low,  level  causeway,  solid  as  the  mountains  them- 
selves, which  buttress  its  farther  side,  a  via  trium- 
pha,  meet  highway  for  the  returning  chariot  of  an 
emperor.  It  rears  itself  from  the  valleys,  a  dragon 
rampant  and  with  horrid  jaws.  It  flings  itself 
with  smothering  caresses  about  the  burly  moun- 
tains, and  stifles  them  in  its  close  embrace.  It 
trails  along  the  hills,  floating  in  filmy,  parting 
gauze,  scattering  little  flecks  of  pearl,  fringing 
itself  over  the  hollows,  and  hustling  against  a 
rocky  breastwork  that  bars  its  onward  going.  It 
wreathes  upward,  curling  around  the  peaks  and 
veiling  summits,  whose  slopes  shine  white  in  the 
unclouded  sun.  It  shuts  down  gray,  dense,  som- 


168  GALA-DA  YS. 

bre,  with  moody  monotone.  It  opens  roguishly- 
one  little  loop-hole,  through  which  —  cloiid  above, 
cloud  below,  cloud  on  this  side  and  on  that — you 
see  a  sweet,  violet-hued  mountain-dome,  lying 
against  a  background  of.  brilliant  blue  sky,  — just 
for  one  heart-beat,  and  it  closes  again,  gray, 
sheeted,  monotonous. 

Leaving  the  valley,  and  driving  along  the  Jeffer- 
son road,  you  have  the  mountains  under  an  entirely 
new  aspect.  Before,  they  stood,  as  it  were,  end- 
wise. Now  you  have  them  at  broadside.  Mile 
after  mile  you  pass  "under  their  solid  ramparts,  but 
far  enough  to  receive  the  idea  of  their  height 
and  breadth,  their  vast  material  greatness,  —  far 
enough  to  let  the  broad  green  levels  of  the 
intervale  slide  between,  with  here  and  there  a 
graceful  elm,  towering  and  protective,  and  here 
and  there  a  brown  farm-house.  But  man's  works 
show  puny  and  mean  beside  nature,  which  seems 
spontaneous  as  a  thought.  Man's  work  is  a  toil ; 
nature's  is  a  relief.  Man  labors  to  attain  abun- 
dance ;  nature,  to  throw  off  superabundance.  The 
mountain-sides  bristle  with  forests ;  man  drags  him- 
self from  his  valley,  and  slowly  and  painfully 
levels  an  inch  or  two  for  his  use ;  just  a  little  way 
here  and  there  a  green  field  has  crept  up  into  the 
forest.  The  mountain-chin  has  one  or  two  shaven 
spots ;  but  for  the  greater  part  his  beard  is  still  un- 
shorn. All  along  he  sends  down  his  boon  to  men. 
Everywhere  you  hear  the  scurrying  feet  of  little 


GALA-DA  YS.  1 69 

brooks,  tumbling  pell-mell  clown  the  rocks  in  their 
frantic  haste  to  reach  a  goal ;  —  often  a  pleasant 
cottage-door,  to  lighten  the  burden  and  cool  the 
brow  of  toil ;  often  to  pour  through  a  hollow  log 
by  the  wayside,  —  a  never-failing  beneficence  and 
joy  to  the  wearied,  trusty  horses.  From  the  piazza 
of  the  Waumbeck  House  —  a  quiet,  pleasant, 
home-like  little  hotel  in  Jefferson,  and  the  only 
one,  so  far  as  I  know,  that  has  had  the  grace  to 
take  to  itself  one  of  the  old  Indian  names  in 
which  the  region  abounds,  Waumbeck,  Waumbek- 
Methna,  Mountains  of  Snowy-Foreheads  —  a  very 
panorama  of  magnificence  unfolds  itself.  The 
whole  horizon  is  rimmed  with  mountain-ranges. 
The  White  Mountain  chain  stands  out  bold  and 
firm,  sending  greeting  to  his  peers  afar.  Fran- 
conia  answers  clear  and  bright  from  the  south- 
west ;  and  from  beyond  the  Connecticut  the  Green 
hills  make  response.  Loth  to  leave,  we  turn  away 
from  these  grand  out-lying  bulwarks  to  front  on 
our  return  bulwarks  as  grand  and  massive,  behind 
whose  impregnable  walls  we  seem  shut  in  from  the 
world  forever. 

A  little  lyric  in  the  epos  may  be  found  in  a  side- 
journey  to  Bethel,  —  a  village  which  no  one  ever 
heard  of,  at  least  I  never  did,  till  now ;  but  when 
we  did  hear,  we  heard  so  much  and  so  well  that 
we  at  once  started  on  a  tour  of  exploration,  and 
found  —  as  Halicarnassus  quotes  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  —  there  was  more  of  it  than  we  expected. 


170  GALA-DA  YS. 

The  ride  down  in  the  train,  if  you  aiB  willing  and 
able  to  stand  on  the  rear  platform  of  the  rear  car, 
is  of  surpassing  beauty.  The  mountains  seem  to 
rise  and  approach  in  dumb,  reluctant  farewell. 
The  river  bends  and  insinuates,  spreading  out  to 
you  all  its  islands  of  delight.  Molten  in  its  depths, 
golden  in  its  shallows,  it  meanders  through  its 
meadows,  a  joy  forever.  Bethel  sits  on  its  banks, 
loveliest  of  rural  villages,  and  gently  unfolds  its 
beauties  to  your  longing  eyes.  The  Bethel  House, 

—  a  large,  old-fashioned  country-house,  with  one 
of  those  broad,  social  second-story  piazzas,  and  a 
well  bubbling  up  in  the  middle  of  the  dining-room, 

—  think  of  that,  Master  Brooke  !  —  a  hotel  whose 
landlord  welcomes  you  with  lemonade  and  roses 
(perhaps  he  would  n't  you  /),  —  a  hotel  terrible  to 
evil-doers,  but  a  praise  to  them  that  do  well,  inas- 
much as  it  is  conducted  on  the  millennial  principle 
of  quietly   frightening  away   disagreeable   people 
with  high   rates,    and  fascinating  amiable  people 
with  reasonable  ones,  so  that,  of  course,  you  have 
the   wheat   without   the   chaff,  —  a   hotel   where 
people  go  to  rest  and  enjoy,  and  wear  morning- 
dresses    all   day,    and   are   fine   only   when   they 
choose  —  indeed,  you  can  do  that   anywhere,  if 
you  only  think  so.     The  idea  that  you  must  lug 
all   your   best  clothes    through   the  wilderness  is 
absurd.     A  good    travelling-dress,  admissible    of 
bisection,  a  muslin    spencer   for   warm   evenings, 
and  a  velvet  bodice  when  you  design  to  be  gor- 


GALA-DAYS.  171 

geous,  will  take  you  through  with  all  the  honors 
of  war.  Besides,  there  are  always  sure  to  be 
plenty  of  people  in  every  drawing-room  who  will 
be  sumptuously  attired,  and  you  can  feast  your 
eyes  luxuriously  on  them,  and  gratefully  feel  that 
the  work  is  so  well  done  as  to  need  no  co-operation 
of  yours,  and  that  you  can  be  comfortable  with  an 
easy  conscience.  Where  was  I  ?  O,  on  the  top  of 
Paradise  Hill,  I  believe,  surveying  Paradise,  a 
little  indistinct  and  quavering  in  the  sheen  of  a 
summer  noon,  but  clear  enough  to  reveal  its  Pison, 
its  Gihon,  its  Hiddekel  and  Euphrates,  compassing 
the  whole  land  of  Havilah  ;  or  perhaps  I  was  on 
Sparrowhawk,  beholding  Paradise  from  another 
point,  dotted  with  homes  and  church-spires,  rich 
and  fertile,  fair  still,  with  compassing  river  and 
tranquil  lake  ;  or,  more  probable  than  either,  I 
was  driving  along  the  highland  that  skirts  the 
golden  meadows  through  which  the  river  purls, 
ruddy  in  the  setting  sun,  and  rejoicing  in  the 
beauty  amid  which  he  lives  and  moves  and  has  his 
being.  Lovely  Bethel,  fairest  ornament  of  the 
sturdy  mountain-land,  tender  and  smiling  as  if  no 
storm  had  ever  swept,  no  sin  ever  marred,  —  an 
Arcadia  that  no  one  would  ever  leave  but  for  the 
magic  of  the  drive  back  to  Gorham  through  piny 
woods,  under  frowning  mountains,  circled  with  all 
the  glories  of  sky  and  river,  —  a  drive  so  enticing, 
that,  when  you  reach  Gorham,  straight  back  again 
you  will  go  to  Bethel,  and  so  forever  oscillate,  un- 
less some  stronger  magnet  interpose. 


172  GALA-DAYS. 

A  rainy  day  among  the  mountains  is  generally 
considered  rather  dismal,  but  I  find  that  I  like  it. 
Apart  from  the  fact  that  you  wish,  or  ought  to 
wish,  to  see  Nature  in  all  her  aspects,  it  is  a  very 
beneficent  arrangement  of  Providence,  that,  when 
eyes  and  brain  and  heart  are  weary  with  looking 
and  receiving,  an  impenetrable  barrier  is  noise- 
lessly let  down,  and  you  are  forced  to  rest. 
Besides,  there  are  many  things  which  it  is  not 
absolutely  essential  to  see,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
are  very  interesting  in  the  sight.  You  would  not 
think  of  turning  away  from  a  mountain  or  a 
waterfall  to  visit  them,  but  when  you  are  forcibly 
shut  out  from  both,  you  condescend  to  homelier 
sights.  For  instance,  I  wonder  how  many  fre- 
quenters of  the  Alpine  House  ever  saw  or  know 
that  there  is  a  dairy  in  its  Plutonian  regions.  A 
rainy  day  discovered  it  to  us,  and,  with  many  an 
injunction  touching  possible  dust,  we  were  bidden 
into  those  mysterious  precincts.  A  carpet,  laid 
loose  over  the  steps,  forestalled  every  atom  of 
defilement,  and,  descending  cautiously  and  fearfully 
through  portals  and  outer  courts,  we  trod  presently 
the  adytum.  It  was  a  dark,  cool,  silent  place. 
The  floors  were  white,  spotless,  and  actually  fra- 
grant with  cleanliness.  The  sides  of  the  room 
wei*e  lined  with  shelves,  the  shelves  begemmed 
with  bright  pans,  and  the  bright  pans  filled  with 
milk,  —  I  don't  know  how  many  pans  there  were, 
but  I  should  think  about  a  million,  —  and  there  was 


GALA-DAYS.  173 

a  mound  of  pails  piled  up  to  be  washed,  and  cosey 
little  colonies  of  butter,  pleasant  to  eyes,  nose,  and 
mouth,  and  a  curious  machine  to  work  butter  over, 
consisting  of  something  like  a  table  in  the  shape  of 
the  letter  V,  the  flat  part  a  trough,  with  a  wooden 
handle  to  push  back  and  forth,  and  the  buttermilk 
running  out  at  the  apex  of  the  V.  If  the  princi- 
ple on  which  it  is  constructed  is  a  secret,  I  don't 
believe  I  have  divulged  it ;  but  I  do  not  aim  to  let 
you  know  precisely  what  it  is,  only  that  there  is 
such  a  thing.  I  hope  now  that  every  one  will  not 
flock  down  cellar  the  moment  he  alights  from  the 
Gorham  train.  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  divert 
the  stream  of  travel  into  Mr.  Hitchcock's  dairy, 
for  I  am  sure  any  great  influx  of  visitors  would 
sorely  disconcert  the  good  genius  who  presides 
there,  and  would  be  an  ill  requital  for  her  kindness 
to  us  ;  but  it  was  so  novel  and  pleasant  a  sight  that 
I  am  sure  she  will  pardon  me  for  speaking  of  it 
just  this  once. 

Another  mild  entertainment  during  an  intermit- 
tent rain  is  a  run  of  about  a  mile  up  to  the  "  hen- 
nery," which  buds  and  blossoms  with  the  dearest 
little  ducks  of  ducks,  broad-billed,  downy,  toddling, 
tumbling  in  and  out  of  a  trough  of  water,  and 
getting  continually  lost  on  the  bluff  outside  ;  little 
chickens  and  turkeys,  and  great  turkeys,  not  pleas- 
ant to  the  eve,  but  good  for  food,  and  turkey-gob- 
blers, stiifest-mannered  of  all  the  feathered  crea- 
tion ;  and  geese,  sailing  in  the  creek  majestic,  or 


174  GALA-DAYS. 

waddling  on  the  grass  dumpy ;  and  two  or  three 
wild  geese,  tolled  down  from  the  sky,  and  clipped 
away  from  it  forever ;  and  guinea-hens,  speckled 
and  spheral ;  and,  most  magnificent  of  all,  a  pea- 
cock, who  stands  in  a  corner  and  unfolds  the  mag- 
nificenc.e  of  his  tail.  Watching  his  movements,  I 
could  not  but  reflect  upon  the  superior  advantages 
which  a  peacock  has  over  a  woman.  The  gor- 
geousness  of  his  apparel  is  such  that  even  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  in  the  like ;  yet 
so  admirable  is  the  contrivance  for  its  manage- 
ment that  no  suspicion  of  mud  or  moisture  stains 
its  brilliancy.  A  woman  must  have  recourse  to 
clumsy  contrivances  of  india-rubber  and  gutta- 
percha  if  her  silken  skirts  shall  not  trail  ignobly 
in  the  dust.  The  peacock  at  will  rears  his  train 
in  a  graceful  curve,  and  defies  defilement. 

Besides  abundance  of  food  and  parade-ground, 
these  happy  fowls  have  a  very  agreeable  prospect. 
Their  abrupt  knoll  commands  a  respectable  section 
of  the  Androscoggin  Valley,  —  rich  meadow-lands, 
the  humanities  of  church-spire  and  cottage,  the 
low  green  sweep  of  the  intervale  through  which 
the  river  croons  its  quiet  way  under  shadows  of 
rock  and  tree,  answering  softly  to  the  hum  of  bee 
and  song  of  bird,  —  answering  just  as  softly  to  the 
snort  and  shriek  of  its  hot-breathed  rival,  the 
railroad.  Doubtless  the  railroad,  swift,  energetic, 
prompt,  gives  itself  many  an  air  over  the  slow- 
going,  calm-souled  water-way,  but  let  Monsieur 


GALA-DAYS.  175 

Chcmin  de  Fer  look  to  his  laurels,  —  a  thing  of 
yesterday  and  to-morrow,  —  a  thing  of  iron  and 
oil  and  accidents.  I,  the  River,  descend  from  the 
everlasting  mountains.  I  was  born  of  the  per- 
petual hills.  I  fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ;  no  obstacle  daunts 
me.  Time  cannot  terrify.  My  power  shall  never 
faint,  my  foundations  never  shrink,  my  fountains 
never  fail. 

"  Men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever." 

And  the  railroad,  pertinacious,  intrusive,  ag- 
gressive, is,  after  all,  the  dependent  follower,  the 
abject  copyist  of  the  river.  Toss  and  scorn  as  it 
may,  the  river  is  its  leader  and  engineer.  Fortunes 
and  ages  almost  woi^d  have  been  necessary  to 
tunnel  those  mountains,  if  indeed  tunnelling  had 
been  possible,  but  the  river  winds  at  its  own  sweet 
•will.  Without  sound  of  hammer  or  axe,  by  force 
of  its  own  heaven-born  instincts,  it  has  levelled  its 
lovely  way  unerring,  and  wherever  it  goes,  thither 
goes  the  railroad,  to  its  own  infinite  gain.  Rail- 
roads are  not  generally  considered  picturesque,  but 
from  the  stand-point  of  that  hennery,  and  from 
several  other  stand-points,  I  had  no  fault  to  find. 
Unable  to  go  straight  on,  as  the  manner  of  rail- 
roads is,  it  bends  to  all  the  wayward  little  fancies 
of  the  river,  piercing  the  wild  wood,  curling  around 
the  base  of  the  granite  hills,  now  let  loose  a  space 
to  shoot  across  the  glade,  joyful  of  the  permission 


176  GALA-DAYS. 

to  indulge  its  railroad  instinct  of  straightness  ;  and, 
amid  so  much  irregularity  and  headlong  wilfulness, 
a  straight  line  is  really  refreshing.  Up  the  sides 
of  its  embankment  wild  vines  have  twisted  and 
climbed,  and  wild-flowers  have  budded  into  bloom. 
Berlin  Falls  is  hardly  a  wet-day  resource,  but 
the  day  on  which  we  saw  it  changed  its  mind  after 
we  left  the  hotel,  and  from  clouds  and  promise  of 
sunshine  turned  into  clouds  and  certainty  of 
rain.  For  all  that,  the  drive  along  the  river, 
within  sound  of  its  roaring  and  gurgling  and  rip- 
pling and  laughing  overflow  of  joy,  with  occasional 
glimpses  of  it  through  the  trees,  with  gray  cloud- 
curtains  constantly  dropping,  then  suddenly  lifting, 
and  gray  sheets  of  rain  fringing  down  before  us, 
and  the  thirsty,  parched  letves,  intoxicated  with 
their  much  mead  of  the  mountains,  slapping  us 
saucily  on  the  cheek,  or  in  mad  revel  flinging  into 
our  faces  their  goblets  of  honey-dew,  —  ah  !  it  was 
a  carnival  of  tricksy  delight,  making  the  blood 
glow  like  wine.  The  falls,  which  chanced  to  be 
indeed  no  falls,  but  shower-swollen  into  rapids, 
are  one  of  the  most  wonderful  presentations  of 
Nature's  masonry  that  I  have  ever  seen.  It  is 
not  the  water,  but  the  rock,  that  amazes.  The 
whole  Androscoggin  River  gathers  up  its  strength 
and  plunges  through  a  gorge,  —  a  gateway  in  the 
solid  rock  as  regular,  as  upright,  as  if  man  had 
brought  in  the  whole  force  of  his  geometry  and 
gunpowder  to  the  admeasurement  and  excavation, 


GALA-DAYS.  177 

—  plunges,    conscious    of  imprisonment   and   the 
insult  to  its  slighted  majesty,  —  plunges  with  fierce 
protest  and  frenzy  of  rage,  breaks  against  a  grim, 
unyielding  rock   to   dash   itself  into   a   thousand 
whirling  waves  ;  then  rushes  on  to  be  again  im- 
prisoned between  the  pillars  of  another  gorge,  only 
less   regular,  not   less  inexorable,  than  the  first ; 
then,  leaping  and  surging,  it  beats  against  its  banks, 
and  is  hurled  wrathfully  back  in  jets  of  spray  and 
wreaths  of  foam  ;  or,  soothed  into  gentler  mood  by 
the  soft  touch  of  mosses  on  the  brown  old  rocks,  it 
leaps  lightly  up  their  dripping  sides,  and  trickles 
back  from  the  green,  wet,  overhanging  spray,  and 
so,  all  passion  sobbed  away,  it  babbles  down  to  its 
bed   of  Lincoln  green,  where   Robin   Hood  and 
Maid  Marian  wait  under  the  oaken  boughs. 

In  the  leaden,  heavy  air  the  scene  was  sombre, 

—  tragic.     In  sunshine  and  shadows  it  must  have 
other  moods,  perhaps  a  different  character ;  I  did 
not  see  the  sunshine  play  upon  it. 

But  the  day  of  days  you  shall  give  to  the  moun- 
tain. The  mountain,  Washington,  king  of  all 
this  Atlantic  coast, — at  least  till  but  just  now, 
when  some  designing  "Warwick  comes  forward  to 
press  the  claims  of  an  ignoble  Carolinian  upstart, 
with,  of  course,  a  due  and  formidable  array  of 
feet  and  figures  :  but  if  they  have  such  a  moun- 
tain, where,  I  should  like  to  know,  has  he  been  all 
these  years  ?  A  mountain  is  not  a  thing  that  you 
can  put  away  in  your  pocket,  or  hide  under  the 


178  GALA-DAYS. 

eaves  till  an  accident  reveals  its  whereabouts. 
Verily  our  misguided  brethren  have  much  to  do  to 
make  out  a  case ;  and,  in  the  firm  belief  that  I  am 
climbing  up  the  highest  point  of  land  this  side  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  I  begin  my  journey. 

Time  was  when  the  ascent  of  Mount  Washing- 
ton could  be  justly  considered  a  difficult  and  dan- 
gerous feat ;  but  the  Spirit  of  the  Age,  who  has 
many  worse  things  than  this  to  answer  for,  has 
struck  in  and  felled  and  graded  and  curbed,  till 
now  one  can  ascend  the  mountain  as  safely  as  he 
goes  to  market.  I  consider  this  road  one  of  the 
greatest  triumphs  of  that  heavily  responsible  spirit. 
Loquacious  lovers  of  the  "  romantic "  lament 
the  absence  of  danger  and  its  excitements,  and 
the  road  does  indeed  lie  open  to  that  objection. 
He  who  in  these  latter  days  would  earn  a  repu- 
tation for  enterprise  —  and  I  fancy  the  love  of 
adventure  to  be  far  less  common  than  the  love 
of  being  thought  adventurous  —  must  have  re- 
course to  some  such  forlorn  hope  as  going  up 
the  mountain  on  the  ice  in  midwinter,  or  coast- 
ing down  on  a  hand-sled.  But  I  have  no  incli- 
nation in  that  direction.  I  am  willing  to  en- 
counter risks,  if  there  is  no  other  way  of  attaining 
objects.  But  risks  in  and  of  themselves  are  a 
nuisance.  If  there  is  no  more  excellent  way,  of 
course  you  must  clamber  along  steep,  rugged 
stairways  of  bridle-paths,  where  a  single  misstep 
will  send  you  plunging  upon  a  cruel  and  bloody 


GALA-DAYS.  179 

death  ;  but  so  far  as  choice  goes,  one  would  much 
more  wisely  ride  over  a  civilized  road,  where  he 
can  have  his  whole  mind  for  the  mountain,  and 
not  be  continually  hampered  with  fears  and  watch- 
fulness for  his  own  personal  safety.  It  is  a  great 
mistake  to  suppose  that  discomfort  is  necessarily 
heroism.  Besides,  to  have  opened  a  carnage-way  up 
the  mountain  is  to  have  brought  the  mountain  with 
all  its  possessions  down  to  the  cradle  of  the  young 
and  the  crutch  of  the  old,  —  almost  to  the  couch  of 
the  invalid.  I  saw  recorded  against  one  name  in 
the  books  of  the  Tip-top  House  the  significant  item, 
"  aged  eight  months."  Probably  the  youngster 
was  not  directly  much  benefited  by  his  excursion, 
but  you  are  to  remember  that  perhaps  his  mother 
could  not  have  come  without  him,  and  therein  lay 
the  benefit.  The  day  before  our  ascent,  a  lady 
over  seventy  years  old  ascended  without  extreme 
fatigue  or  any  injury.  Several  days  after,  a  lady 
with  apparently  but  a  few  weeks  of  earth  before 
her,  made  the  ascent  to  satisfy  the  longings  of  her 
heart,  and  gaze  upon  the  expanses  of  this,  before  the 
radiance  of  another  world  should  burst  upon  her 
view.  If  people  insist  upon  encountering  danger, 
they  can  find  a  swift  river  and  ford  it,  or  pile  up  a 
heap  of  stones  and  climb  them,  or  volunteer  to 
serve  their  country  in  the  army :  meanwhile,  let 
us  rejoice  that  thousands  who  have  been  shut  away 
from  the  feast  may  now  sit  down  to  the  table  of 
the  Lord. 


180  GALA-DA  YS. 

This  road,  we  were  told,  was  begun  about  eight 
years  ago,  but  by  disastrous  circumstances  its  com- 
pletion was  delayed  until  within  a  year  or  two. 
Looking  at  the  country  through  which  it  lies,  the 
only  wonder  is  that  it  ever  reached  completion. 
As  it  is,  I  believe  its  proprietors  do  not  consider 
it  quite  finished,  and  are  continually  working  upon 
its  improvement.  Good  or  bad,  it  seems  to  me  to 
be  much  the  best  road  anywhere  in  the  region. 
The  pitches  and  holes  that  would  fain  make  coach- 
ing on  the  common  roads  so  precarious  are  entirely 
left  out  here.  The  ascent  is  continuous.  Not  a 
step  but  leads  upward.  The  rise  was  directed  never 
to  exceed  one  foot  in  six,  and  it  does  not ;  the  aver- 
age is  one  foot  in  eight.  Of  course,  to  accomplish 
this  there  must  be  a  great  deal  of  winding  and 
turning.  In  one  place  you  can  look  down  upon, 
what  seem  to  be  three  roads  running  nearly  par- 
allel along  a  ridge,  but  what  is  really  the  one  road 
twisting  to  its  ascent.  Some  idea  of  the  skill  and 
science  required  to  engineer  it  may  be  gathered  by 
looking  into  the  tangled  wilderness  and  rocky  rough- 
ness that  lie  still  each  side  the  way.  Through 
such  a  gnarled,  knotted,  interlaced  jungle  of  big 
trees  and  little  trees,  and  all  manner  of  tangled 
twining  undergrowths,  lining  the  sides  of  preci- 
pices, or  hanging  with  bare  roots  over  them,  con- 
cealing dangers  till  the  shuddering,  soul  almost 
plunges  into  them,  the  road-men  carefully  and 
painfully  sought  and  fought  their  way.  Up  on 


GALA-DAYS.  181 

the  rocky  heights  it  was  comparatively  easy,  for, 
as  one  very  expressively  phrased  it,  every  stone 
which  they  pried  up  left  a  hole  and  made  a  hole. 
The  stone  wrenched  from  above  rolled  below,  and 
so  lowered  the  height  and  raised  the  depth,  and 
constantly  tended  to  levelness.  Besides,  there 
were  no  huge  tree-trunks  to  be  extracted  from  the 
unwilling  jaws  of  the  mountain  by  forest-dentists, 
with  much  sweat  and  toil  and  pain  of  dentist  if  not 
of  jaws.  Since,  also,  the  rise  of  one  foot  in  six 
was  considered  as  great  as  was  compatible  with 
the  well-being  and  well-doing  of  horses,  whenever 
the  way  came  upon  a  knob  or  a  breastwork  that 
refused  to  be  brought  down  within  the  orthodox 
dimensions,  it  must  turn.  If  the  knob  would  not 
yield,  the  way  must,  and,  in  consequence,  its  length- 
ened bitterness  is  long  "drawn  out.  A  line  that 
continually  doubles  on  itself  is  naturally  longer 
than  one  which  goes  straight  to  the  mark.  Mount 
Washington  is  little  more  than  a  mile  high  ;  the 
road  that  creeps  up  its  surly  sides  is  eight  miles 
long.  Frost  and  freshet  are  constant  foes  ;  the 
one  heaves  and  cracks,  and  the  other  tears  down 
through  the  cracks  to  undermine  and  destroy. 
Twenty-seven  new  culverts,  we  were  told,  had 
been  made,  within  the  space  of  a  mile  and  a  half, 
since  last  year  ;  and  these  culverts  are  no  child's 
play,  but  durable  works,  —  aqueducts  lined  with 
stone  and  bridged  with  plank,  large  enough  for  a 
man  to  pass  through  with  a  wheelbarrow,  and  laid 


182  G  ALA-DA  lrS. 

diagonally  across  the  road,  so  that  the  torrents 
pouring  down  the  gutter  shall  not  have  to  turn  a 
right  angle,  which  they  would  gladly  evade  doing, 
but  a  very  obtuse  one,  which  they  cannot  in 
conscience  refuse  ;  and,  as  the  road  ah1  the  way 
is  built  a  little  higher  on  the  precipice  side  than  on 
the  mountain  side,  the  water  naturally  runs  into  the 
gutter  on  that  side,  and  so  is  easily  beguiled  into 
leaving  the  road,  which  it  would  delight  to  destroy, 
and,  roaring  through  the  culvert,  tumbles  unwarily 
down  the  precipice  before  it  knows  what  it  is 
about. 

I  have  heard  it  said,  that  the  man  who  originated 
this  road  has  since  become  insane.  More  likely 
he  was  insane  at  the  time.  Surely,  no  man  in  his 
senses  would  ever  have  projected  a  scheme  so  wild 
and  chimerical,  so  evidently  impossible  of  fulfil- 
ment. Projected  it  was,  however,  not  only  in 
fancy,  but  in  fact,  to  our  great  content ;  and  so, 
tamely  but  comfortably,  an  untiring  cavalcade,  we 
leave  the  peaceful  glen  set  at  the  mountain's 
base,  and  wind  through  the  lovely,  lively  woods, 
tremulous  with  sunshine  and  shadows,  musical 
with  the  manifold  songs  of  its  pregnant  soli- 
tudes, out  from  the  woods,  up  from  the  woods, 
into  the  wild,  cold,  shrieking  winds,  among  the 
blenched  rocks  and  the  pale  ghosts  of  dead  forests 
stiff  and  stark,  up  and  up  among  the.  caverns,  and 
the  gorges,  and  the  dreadful  chasms,  piny  ravines 
black  and  bottomless,  steeps  bare  and  rocky  lead- 


GALA-DAYS.  183 

ing  down  to  awful  depths  ;  on  and  on,  fighting  with 
the  maddened  winds  and  the  startled,  wrathful 
wraiths,  onward  and  upward  till  we  stand  on  the 
bleak  and  shivering,  the  stony  and  soulless  summit. 
Desolation  of  desolations  !  Desolation  of  desola- 
tions !  How  terrible  is  this  place  I  The  shining 
mountain  that  flashed  back  to  the  sun  his  radiance 
is  become  a  bald  and  frowning  desert  that  appalls 
us  with  its  barrenness.  The  sweet  and  sylvaii 
approach  gave  no  sign  of  such  a  goal,  but  the  war 
between  life  and  death  was  even  then  begun.  The 
slant  sunlight  glinted  through  the  jungle  and 
bathed  us  with  its  glory  of  golden-green.  The 
shining  boles  of  the  silvery  gray  birch  shot  up 
straight,  and  the  white  birch  unrolled  its  patches 
of  dead  pallor  in  the  sombre,  untrodden  depths. 
The  spruces  quivered  like  pure  jellies  tipped  with 
light,  sunshine  prisoned  in  every  green  crystal. 
Myrtle-vines  ran  along  the  ground,  the  bunch- 
berry  hung  out  its  white  banner,  and  you  scarcely 
saw  the  trees  that  lay  faint  and  fallen  in  the  arms 
of  their  mates.  The  damp,  soft  earth  nourished  its 
numerous  brood,  Terrce  omni  parcntis  alumnos,  its 
own  thirsty  soul  continually  refreshed  from  springs 
whose  sparkle  we  could  not  see,  though  the  gurgle 
and  ripple  of  their  march  sung  out  from  so  many 
hiding-places  that  we  seemed  to  be 

"  Seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams." 

Whole  settlements  of  the  slender,  stately  brakes 


184  GALA-DAYS. 

filled  the  openings,  and  the  mountain-ash  drooped 
in  graceful  curves  over  our  heads,  but  gradually 
the  fine  tall  trees  dwindled  into  dwarfs,  chilled  to 
the  heart  by  the  silent,  pitiless  cold.  Others  bat- 
tled bravely  with  the  howling  winds,  which  have 
stripped  them  bare  on  one  side,  while  they  seem 
to  toss  out  their  arms  wildly  on  the  other,  implor- 
ing protection  and  aid  from  the  valley-dwellers 
below.  Up  and  up,  and  you  come  suddenly  upon 
the  "  Silver  Forest,"  a  grove  of  dead  white  trees, 
naked  of  leaf  and  fruit  and  bud,  bare  of  color, 
dry  of  sap  and  juice  and  life,  retaining  only  their 
form,  —  cold  set  outline  of  their  hale  and  hearty 
vigor  ;  a  skeleton  plantation,  bleaching  in  the 
frosty  sun,  yet  mindful  of  its  past  existence, 
sturdy,  and  defiant  of  the  woodman's  axe  ;  a  frost- 
work mimicry  of  nature,  a  phantom  forest.  On 
and  on,  turning  to  overlook  the  path  you  have 
trodden,  at  every  retrospect  the  struggle  between 
life  and  death  becomes  more  and  more  palpable. 
The  Destroyer  has  hurled  his  winds,  his  frosts,  his 
fires ;  and  gray  wastes,  broken  wastes,  black  wastes, 
attest  with  what  signal  power.  But  life  follows 
closely,  planting  his  seeds  in  the  very  footprints  of 
death.  Where  blankness  and  bleakness  seem  to 
reign,  a  tiny  life  springs  in  mosses,  rich  with  prom- 
ise of  better  things.  Long  forked  tongues  of  green 
are  lapping  up  the  dreary  wastes,  and  will  presently 
overpower  them  with  its  vivid  tints.  Even  amid 
the  blanched  petrifaction  of  the  Silver  Grove  fresh 


GALA-DAYS.  185 

growths  are  creeping,  and  the  day  is  not  far  dis- 
tant that  shall  see  those  pale  statues  overtopped, 
submerged,  lost  in  an  emerald  sea.  Even  among 
the  rocks,  the  strife  rages.  Some  mysterious  prin- 
ciple inheres  in  the  insensate  rock,  whose  loss 
makes  this  crumbling,  discolored,  inert  debris.  Up 
you  go,  up  and  up,  and  life  dies  out.  Chaos  and 
ruin  reign  supreme.  Headlong  steeps  yawn  be- 
side your  path,  losing  their  depths  in  darkness. 
Great  fragments  of  rock  cover  all  the  ground, 
lie  heaped,  pile  upon  pile,  jagged,  gray,  tilted 
into  a  thousand  sharp  angles,  refusing  a  foot- 
hold, or  offering  it  treacherously.  Wild  work  has 
been  here  ;  and  these  gigantic  wrecks  bear  silent 
witness  of  the  uproar.  It  seems  but  a  pause,  not 
a  peace.  Agiocochook,  Great  Mountain  of  Spirits, 
rendezvous  of  departed  souls,  clothed  with  the 
strength  and  fired  with  the  passions  of  the  gods,  — 
in  what  caverns  under  the  cliffs  do  the  wearied 
Titans  rest  ?  From  what  dungeons  of  gloom 
emerging  shall  they  renew  their  elemental  strife  ? 
What  shall  be  the  sign  of  their  awaking  to  darken 
the  earth  with  their  missiles  and  deafen  the  skies 
with  their  thunder  ?  And  what  daring  of  man  is 
this  to  scorn  his  smiling  valleys  and  adventure  up 
into  these  realms  of  storm  ?  No  Titan  he,  yet  the 
truest  Titan  of  all,  for  he  wrestled  and  overcame. 
No  giant  he,  yet  grander  than  the  giants,  since 
without  Pelion  or  Ossa  he  has  scaled  heaven. 
Through  uncounted  a3ons  the  mountain  has  been 


186  GALA-DAYS. 

gathering  its  forces.  Frost  and  snow  and  ice  and 
the  willing  winds  have  been  its  sworn  retainers. 
Cold  and  famine  and  death  it  flaunted  in  the  face 
of  the  besieger.  Man  is  of  a-  day,  and  the  ele- 
ments are  but  slippery  allies.  A  spade  and  a  com- 
pass are  his  meagre  weapons ;  yet  man  has  con- 
quered. The  struggle  was  long,  with  many  a  rec- 
onnoissance  and  partial  triumph,  but  at  length  the 
victory  is  complete.  Man  has  placed  his  hand  on 
the  monarch's  mane.  He  has  pierced  leviathan 
with  a  hook.  The  secrets  of  the  mountain  are  un- 
covered. His  fastnesses  conceal  no  treasures  that 
shall  not  be  spread  out  to  the  day.  His  bolts  and 
bars  of  ice  can  no  longer  press  back  the  foot  of  the 
invader.  Yon  gray  and  slender  ribbon,  that  floats 
down  his  defiles,  disappearing  now  over  his  ledges 
to  reappear  on  some  lower  range,  and  lie  lightly 
across  the  plateau,  —  that  is  his  bridle  of  submis- 
sion, his  badge  of  servitude.  Obedient  to  that,  he 
yields  up  his  hoarded  wealth  and  pays  tribute,  a 
vassal  to  his  lord.  Men  and  women  and  littlo 
children  climb  up  his  rugged  sides,  and  the  crown 
upon  his  beetling  brows  is  set  in  the  circle  of 
humanity. 

In  the  first  depression  of  abandonment  one  loses 
heart,  and  sees  only  the  abomination  of  desolation  ; 
but  gradually  the  soul  lifts  itself  from  the  barren 
earth,  and  floats  out  upon  the  ocean,  in  which  one 
stands  islanded  on  a  gray  rock,  fixed  in  seas  of 
sunshine. 


GALA-DAYS.  187 

Whether  you  shall  have  a  fair  day  or  a  foul  is 
as  may  be.  At  the  mountain's  base  they  discreetly 
promise  you  nothing.  It  may  be  sunny  and  sultry 
down  there,  while  storms  and  floods  have  at  it  on 
the  peak.  But  mine  was  a  day  of  days,  —  clear, 
alternating  with  cloudy.  When  you  had  looked 
long  enough  to  dazzle  and  weary  your  eyes,  a 
cloud  would  come  and  fold  you  about  with  opaque- 
ness, and  while  you  waited  in  the  cloud,  lo  here  ! 
lo  there !  it  flashed  apart  and  shimmered  yonder  a 
blue  sky,  a  brilliant  landscape,  and  the  distant  level 
of  the  sea ;  or  slowly  its  wb.itene.ss  cleaved  and. 
rolled  away,  revealing  a  glorified  mountain,  a  lake 
lying  in  the  shadows,  or  the  simple  glen  far  down 
from  which  we  came.  It  was  constant  change  and 
ever-new  delight. 

But  this  going  up  mountains  is  a  bad  thing  for 
the  clouds.  All  their  fleecy  softness,  all  their  pink 
and  purple  and  pearly  beauty,  all  the  mystery  of 
their  unattainableness,  is  weighed  in  the  balance 
and  found  to  be  fog,  and  by  no  means  unapproach- 
able. They  will  never  impose  upon  us  again. 
Never  more  will  they  ride  through  the  serene 
blue,-white-stoled  cherubs  of  the  sky.  Henceforth 
there  is  very  little  sky  about  them.  Sail  away, 
little  cloud,  little  swell,  little  humbug.  Make  be- 
lieve you  are  away  up  in  the  curves  of  the  sky. 
Not.  one  person  in  fifty  will  climb  a  mountain  and 
find  you  out.  But  I  have  been  there,  and  you  are 
nothing  but  fog,  of  the  earth,  earthy.  And  when 


188  GALA-DA  YS. 

I  sat  in  the  cleft  of  a  rock  on  the  side  of  Mount 
Washington,  every  fibre  chilled  through  with  your 
icy  moisture,  I  could  with  a  good  will  have  sent 
a  sheriff  to  arrest  you  for  obtaining  love  under 
false  pretences.  O  you  innocent,  child-like  cloud ! 
heaving  with  warmth  and  passion  as  we  saw,  but  a 
gray  little  imp,  cold  at  the  heart,  and  malignant, 
and  inexorable,  as  we  felt. 

Felt  it  only  when  we  did  feel  it,  after  all ;  for 
no  sooner  did  it  roll  slowly  away,  and,  ceasing  to 
be  a  discomfort,  turn  into  scenery,  than  all  its 
olden  witchery  ^ame  back.  I  have  had  no  more 
than  a  glimpse  of  the  world  from  a  mountain. 
The  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first 
day ;  and,  till  time  shall  be  no  more,  the  even- 
ing and  the  morning  will  be  all  that  there  is  of 
the  day,  aesthetically  considered.  Yet  at  noon, — 
the  most  unfascinating  hour,  —  and  in  the  early 
afternoon,  though  you  must  needs  fail  of  the  twi- 
light and  its  forerunners,  there  is  an  intensity 
of  brilliance  and  an  immensity  of  breadth,  that,  it 
seems  to  me,  must  be  greater  than  if  the  view 
were  broken  up  by  light  and  shade.  You  are 
blinded  with  a  flood  of  radiance,  disturbed,  or 
rather  increased,  by  the  flitting  cloud-shadows. 
The  mountains  deepen  in  the  distance,  burning 
red  in  the  glare  of  the  sun,  bristling  with  pines, 
mottled  with  the  various  tints  of  oak  and  maple 
relieving  the  soberer  evergreens  purpling  on  the 
slopes  through  a  spiritual  hazy  glow,  delicatest 


GALA-DA  YS.  189 

lavender,  and  pearl,  where  they  lie  scarcely  pen- 
cilling the  distant  horizon.  The  clouds  come  sail- 
ing over,  flinging  their  shadows  to  the  plains, — 
shadows  wavering  down  the  mountain-sides  with 
an  indescribable  sweet  tremulousness,  scudding 
over  the  lower  summits,  pursued  by  some  frolic- 
some gale  which  we  do  not  see,  or  resting  softly 
in  the  dells,  whose  throbbing  soothes  itself  to  still- 
ness in  the  grateful  shade.  And  still,  midway 
between  heaven  and  earth,  snatched  up  from  the 
turmoil  of  the  one  into  the  unspeakable  calm  of 
the  other,  a  great  peace  and  rest,  sink  into  our 
souls.  All  around  lies  the  earth,  shining  and  silent 
as  the  sky,  rippling  in  little  swells  of  light,  break- 
ing into  luminous  points,  rising  into  shapely  shafts, 
spi-eading  in  limpid,  molten  silver,  and  all  bathed, 
transmuted,  glorified,  with  ineffable  light,  and 
sacred  with  eternal  silence. 

A  bubble  of  home-life  adheres  to  this  stern  peak. 
Determination  and  perseverance  have  built  two 
stone  cottages,  rough  and  squat,  where  you  may, 
if  you  have  no  mercy,  eat  a  fine  dinner  that 
has  been  wearily  dragged  over  eight  miles  of  hil- 
locky,  rutty  roads,  and  up  eight  miles  of  moun- 
tain ;  and  drink  without  any  compunction  clear, 
cold  water  that  the  clouds  have  distilled  without 
any  trouble,  and  the  rocks  have  bottled  up  in 
excellent  refrigerators  and  furnish  at  the  shortest 
aotice  and  on  the  most  reasonable  terms,  except 


190  GALA-DAYS. 

in  very  dry  weather.  Or  if  a  drought  drinks 
up  the  supply  in  the  natural  wells,  there  is  the 
Lake  of  the  Clouds,  humid  and  dark  below,  where 
you  may  see  —  I  do  not  know  —  the  angels 
ascending  and  descending.  The  angels  of  the 
summit  are  generally  armed  with  a  huge  hoop, 
which  supports  their  brace  of  buckets  as  they  step 
cautiously  over  the  cragged  rock  fragments.  If 
you  are  ambitious  to  scale  the  very  highest  height, 
you  can  easily  mount  the  roof  of  the  most  frivo- 
lously named  Tip-top  House,  and  change  your 
horizon  a  fraction.  If  you  are  gregarious  and 
crave  society,  you  can  generally  find  it  in  multi- 
farious developments.  Hither  come  artists  with 
sketch-books  and  greedy  eyes.  Hither  come 
photographers  with  instruments,  and  photograph 
us  all,  men,  mountains,  and  rocks.  Young  ladies 
come,  and  find,  after  all  their  trouble,  that  "  there 
is  nothing  but  scenery,"  and  sit  and  read  novels. 
Haud  ignota  loguor.  Young  men  come,  alight 
from  their  carnages,  enter  the  house,  balance 
themselves  on  two  legs  of  their  chairs,  smoke  a 
cigar,  eat  a  dinner,  and  record  against  their  names, 
"  Mount  Washington  is  a  humbug,"  —  which  is 
quite  conclusive  as  concerning  the  man,  if  not 
concerning  the  mountain.  There  is  one  man  in 
whose  fate  I  feel  a  lively  curiosity.  As  we 
were  completing  our  descent,  twisted,  frowzy, 
blown  to  shreds,  burnt  faces,  parched  lips,  and 
stringy  hair,  a  solitary  horseman  might  have  been 


GALA-DAYS.  191 

seen  just  commencing  his  ascent,  —  the  nicest 
young  man  that  ever  was,  —  daintily  gloved,  pa- 
tently booted,  oilily  curled,  snowily  wristbanded, 
with  a  lovely  cambric  (prima  facie)  handkerchief 
bound  about  his  hyacinthine  locks  and  polished 
hat.  What  I  wish  to  know  is,  how  did  he  get 
along  ?  How  did  his  toilette  stand  the  ascent  ? 
Did  he,  a  second  Ulysses,  tie  up  all  opposing  winds 
in  that  cambric  pocket-handkerchief?  or  did  Aus- 
ter  and  Eurus  and  Notus  and  Africus  vex  his 
fastidious  soul? 

They  say  —  I  do  not  know  who,  but  somebody 
—  that  Mount  Washington  in  past  ages  towered 
hundreds  of  feet  above  its  present  summit.  Con- 
stant wear  and  tear  of  frost  and  heat  have  brought 
it  down,  and  its  crumbling  rock  testifies  to  the  still 
active  progress  of  decay.  The  mountain  will 
therefore  one  day  flat  out,  and  if  we  live  long 
enough,  Halicarnassus  remarks,  we  may  yet  see 
the  Tip-top  and  Summit  Houses  slowly  let  down 
and  standing  on  a  rolling  prairie.  Those,  there- 
fore, who  prefer  mountain  to  meadow  should  take 
warning  and  make  their  pilgrimage  betimes. 

It  is  likely  that  you  will  be  the  least  in  the  world 
tired  and  a  good  deal  sunburnt  when  you  reach 
the  Glen  House  ;  and,  in  defiance  of  all  the  physi- 
ologies, you  will  eat  a  hearty  supper  and  go 
straight  to  bed,  and  it  won't  hurt  you  in  the 
least.  Nothing  ever  does  among  the  mountains. 
The  first  you  will  know,  you  open  your  eyes  and 


192  GALA-DAYS. 

it  is  morning,  and  there  is  Mount  Washington 
coming  right  in  at  your  window,  bearing  down 
upon  you  with  his  seamed  and  shadowy  massive- 
ness,  and  you  will  forget  how  rough  and  rocky  he 
was  yesterday,  and  will  pay  homage  once  more  to 
his  dignity  of  imperial  purple  -and  his  solemn 
royalty. 

The  moment  you  are  well  awake,  you  find  you 
are  twice  as  good  as  new,  and  after  breakfast,  if 
you  are  sagacious,  no  one  belonging  to  you  will 
have  any  peace  until  you  are  striking  out  into  the 
woods  again,  —  the  green,  murmurous  woods,  ten- 
anted by  innumerable  hosts  of  butterflies  in  their 
sunny  outskirts,  light-winged  Psyches  hovering 
in  the  warm,  rich  air,  stained  and  spotted  and 
splashed  with  every  bright  hue  of  yellow  and 
scarlet  and  russet,  set  off  against  brilliant  blacks 
and  whites ;  dark,  cool  woods  carpeted  with  mosses 
thick,  soft,  voluptuous  with  the  silent  tribute  of 
ages,  and  in  their  luxurious  depths  your  willing 
feet  are  cushioned,  —  more  blessed  than  feet  of 
Persian  princess  crushing  her  woven  lilies  and 
roses ;  the  tender,  sweet-scented  woods  lighted 
with  bright  wood-sorrel,  and  fragrant  with  dews 
and  damps  ;  —  to  the  Garnet  pool,  perhaps,  first, 
where  the  water  has  rounded  out  a  basin  in  the 
rock,  and  with  incessant  whirls  and  eddies  has 
hollowed  numerous  little  sockets,  smooth  and  regu- 
lar, till  you  could  fancy  yourself  looking  upon  the 
remains  of  a  petrified,  sprawling,  and  half-sub- 


GALA-DATS.  193 

merged  monster.  Where  the  water  is  still,  it  is 
beautifully  colored  and  shadowed  with  the  sur- 
rounding verdancy  and  flickering  light  and  mo- 
tion. If  you  have  courage  and  a  firm  foothold,  if 
you  will  not  slip  on  wet  rock,  and  do  not  mind 
your  hands  and  knees  in  climbing  up  a  dry  one, 
if  you  can  coil  yourself  around  a  tree  that  juts  out 
over  a  path  you  wish  to  follow,  you  can  reach 
points  where  the  action  of  the  water,  violent  and 
riotous,  can  be  seen  in  all  its  reckless  force.  But, 
"  Don't  hold  on  by  the  trees,"  says  Halicarnassus  ; 
"  you  will  get  your  gloves  pitchy."  This  to  me, 
when  I  was  in  imminent  danger  of  pitching  myself 
incontinently  over  the  rocks,  and  down  into  the 
whirlpools  ! 

Glen  Ellis  Falls  we  found  in  a  random  saunter, 
—  a  wild,  white  water-leap,  lithe,  intent,  deter- 
mined, rousing  you  far  off  by  the  incessant  roar  of 
its  battle-flood,  only  to  burst  upon  you  as  aggres- 
sive, as  unexpected  and  momentary,  as  if  no  bugle- 
peal  had  heralded  its  onset.  Leaning  against  a 
tree  that  juts  out  over  the  precipice,  clinging  by 
its  roots  to  the  earth  behind,  and  affording  you 
only  a  problematical  support,  you  look  down  upon 
a  green,  translucent  pool,  lying  below  rocks  thick- 
set with  hardy  shrubs  and  trees,  up  to  the  narrow 
fall  that  hurls  itself  down  the  cleft  which  it  has 
grooved,  concentrated  and  alert  at  first,  then 
wavering  out  with  little  tremors  into  the  scant 
sunshine,  and  meeting  the  waters  beneath  to  re- 

9  M 


194  GALA-DAYS. 

bound  with  many  a  spring  of  surge  and  spray.  A 
strange  freak  of  the  water-nymphs  it  is  that  has 
fashioned  this  wild  gulf  and  gorge,  softened  it  with 
the  waving  of  verdure,  and  inspirited  it  with  the 
energy  of  eager  waters. 

'  Unsated  we  turn  in  again,  thridding  the  resinous 
woods  to  track  the  shy  Naiads  hiding  in  their 
coverts.  Over  the  brown  spines  of  the  pines,  soft 
and  perfumed,  we  loiter,  following  leisurely  the 
faint  warble  of  waters,  till  we  come  to  the  boiling 
rapids,  where  the  stream  comes  hurrying  down, 
and  with  sudden  pique  flies  apart,  on  one .  side 
going  to  form  the  Ellis,  on  the  other  the  Peabody 
River,  and  where  in  five  minutes  a  stalwart  arm 
could  drain  the  one  and  double  the  other.  Indeed, 
the  existence  of  these  two  rivers  seems  to  be  a 
question  of  balance  and  coincidence  and  hair- 
breadth escapes.  Our  driver  pointed  out  to  us  a 
tree  whose  root  divides  their  currents.  We  pause 
but  a  moment  on  the  crazy  little  bridge,  and  then 
climb  along  to  the  foot  of  the  "  Silver  Cascade," 
farther  and  higher  still,  till  we  can  see  the  little 
brook  murmuring  on  its  mountain  way  in  the  cliff 
above,  and  look  over  against  it,  and  down  upon  it, 
as  it  streams  through  the  rock,  leaps  adown  the 
height,  widening  and  thinning,  spreading  out  over 
the  face  of  the  declivity,  transmuting  it  into  crys- 
tal, and  veiling  it  with  foam,  leaping  over  in  a 
hundred  little,  arcs,  lightly  bounding  to  its  basin 
below,  then  sweeping  finely  around  the  base  of 


GALA-DAYS.  195 

the  projecting  rock,  and  going  on  its  way  singing 
its  song  of  triumph  and  content.  A  gentle  and 
beautiful  Undine,  the  worshipping  boughs  bend 
to  receive  its  benediction.  Venturesome  mosses 
make  perpetual  little  incursions  into  its  lapping 
tide,  and  divert  numberless  little  streams  to  trickle 
around  their  darkness,  and  leap  up  again  in  silver 
jets,  clapping  their  hands  for  joy. 

"  Now  thanks  to  Heaven  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place; 
Joy  have  I  had,  and  going  hence 
I  bear  away  my  recompense." 

All  good  and  holy  thoughts  come  to  these  soli- 
tudes. Here  selfishness  dies  away,  and  purity  and 
magnanimity  expand,  the  essence  and  germ  of  life. 
Sitting  here  in  these  cool  recesses,  screened  from 
the  sun,  moist  and  musical  with  the  waters,  crusts 
of  worldliness  and  vanity  cleave  off  from  the  soul. 
The  din  dies  away,  and,  with  ears  attuned  to  the 
harmonies  of  nature,  we  are  soothed  to  summer 
quiet.  The  passion  and  truth  of  life  flame  up  into 
serene  but  steadfast  glow.  Every  attainment  be- 
comes possible.  Inflated  ambitions  shrivel,  and  we 
reach  after  the  Infinite.  Weak  desire  is  welded  into 
noble  purpose.  Patience  teaches  her  perfect  work, 
and  vindicates  her  divinity.  The  unchangeable 
rocks  that  face  the  unstable  waters  typify  to  us 
our  struggle  and  our  victory.  Day  by  day  the 
conflict  goes  on.  Day  by  day  the  fixed  battle- 
ments recede  and  decay  before  their  volatile  oppo- 


196  GALA-DAY^. 

nent.  Imperceptibly  weakness  becomes  strength, 
and  persistence  channels  its  way.  God's  work  is 
accomplished  slowly,  but  it  is  accomplished.  Time 
is  not  to  Him  who  commands  eternity  ;  and  man, 
earth-born,  earth-bound,  is  bosomed  in  eternity. 

One  and  another  has  a  preference,  choosing 
rather  this  than  that,  and  claiming  the  palm  for  a 
third ;  but  with  you  there  is  no  comparison. 
Each  is  perfect  in  his  kind.  Each  bodies  his  own 
character  and  breathes  his  own  expression. 

O  to  lie  here  through  long,  long  summer  days, 
drenched  with  coolness  and  shadow  and  solitude, 
cool,  cool,  cool  to  the  innermost  drop  of  my  hot 
heart's-blood  ! 

Never ! 

"Why  do  I  linger  among  the  mountains  ?  You 
have  seen  them  all.  Nay,  verily,  I  could  believe 
that  eyes  had  never  looked  upon  them  before. 
They  Were  new  created  for  me  this  summer-day. 
I  plucked  the  flower  of  their  promise.  I  touched 
the  vigor  of  their  immortal  youth. 

But  mountains  must  be  read  in  the  original,  not 
in  translation.  Only  their  own  rugged  language, 
speaking  directly  to  eye  and  heart,  can  fully  inter- 
pret their  meaning.  What  have  adjectives,  in 
their  wildest  outburst,  to  do  with  rocks  upheaved, 
furrows  ploughed,  features  chiselled,  thousands  and 
thousands  of  years  back  in  the  conjectured  past  ? 
What  is  a  pen-scratch  to  a  ravine  ? 


GALA-DA  YS.  197 

For  speed  and  ease  cars  are,  of  course,  unsur- 
passed ;  but  for  romance,  observation,  interest, 
there  is  nothing  like  the  old-fashioned  coach.  Cars 
are  city ;  coaches  are  country.  Cars  -  are  the 
luxurious  life  of  well-born  and  long-pursed  peo- 
ple ;  coaches  are  the  stirring,  eventful  career  of 
people  who  have  their  own  way  to  make  in 
the  world.  Cars  shoot  on  independent,  thrust- 
ing off  your  sympathy  with  a  snort ;  coaches 
admit  you  to  all  the  little  humanities,  every  jolt 
harmonizes  and  adjusts  you,  till  you  become  a  loco- 
motive world,  tunefully  rolling  on  in  your  orbit, 
independent  of  the  larger  world  beneath.  This  is 
coaching  in  general.  Coaching  among  the  White 
Mountains  is  a  career  by  itself, — I  mean,  of  course, 
if  you  take  it  on  the  outside.  How  life  may  look 
from  the  inside  I  am  unable  to  say,  having  stead- 
fastly avoided  that  stand-point.  When  we  set  out 
it  rained,  and  I  had  a  battle  to  fight.  First,  it  was 
attempted  to  bestow  me  inside,  to  which,  if  I  had 
been  a  bale  of  goods,  susceptible  of  injury  by 
water,  I  might  have  assented.  But  for  a  living 
person,  with  an  internal  furnace  well  fed  with  fuel, 
in  constant  operation,  to  pack  himself  in  a  box  on 
account  of  a  shower,  is  absurd.  What  if  it  did 
rain  ?  I  desired  to  see  how  things  looked  in  the 
rain.  Besides,  it  was  not  incessant ;  there  were 
continual  liftings  of  cloud  and  vapor,  glimpses  of 
clear  sky,  and  a  constant  changing  of  tints,  from 
flashing,  dewy  splendor,  through  the  softness  of 


198  GALA-DAYS. 

shining  mists,  to  the  glooms  of  gray  clouds,  and 
the  blinding,  uncompromising  rain,  —  so  that  I 
would  have  ridden  in  a  cistern  rather  than  have 
failed  to  see  it.  Well,  when  the  outside  was  seen 
to  be  a  fixed  fact,  then  I  must  sit  in  the  middle 
of  the  coachman's  seat.  Why  ?  That  by  boot, 
umbrellas,  and  a  man  on  each  side,  I  might  be 
protected  in  flank,  and  rear,  and  van.  I  said 
audibly,  that  I  would  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the 
earth,  and  bowled  to  death  with  turnips.  If  my 
object  had  been  protection,  I  should  have  gone  in- 
side. This  was  worse  than  inside,  for  it  was  inside 
contracted.  If  I  looked  in  front,  there  was  an 
umbrella  with  rare  glimpses  of  a  steaming  horse  ; 
on  each  side,  the  exhilarating  view  of  a  great  coat ; 
behind,  a  pair  of  boots.  I  might  as  well  have  been 
buried  alive.  No,  the  upper  seat  was  the  only 
one  for  a  civilized  and  enlightened  being  to  occupy. 
There  you  could  be  free  and  look  about,  and  not 
be  crowded ;  and  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  say,  that 
I  am  not  so  unused  to  water  as  to  be  afraid  of  a 
little  more  or  less  of  it.  So  I  ceased  to  argue, 
planted  myself  on  the  upper  seat,  grasped  the 
railing,  and  smiled  on  the  angry  remonstrants  be- 
low,—  smiled,  but  stack!  "Let  her  go,"  said 
the  driver  in  a  savage,  whispered  growl,  —  not 
to  me,  but  a  little  bird  told  me,  — "  let  her  go. 
Can't  never  do  nothin'  with  women.  They  never 
know  what  's  good  for  'em.  When  she  's  well 
wet,  then  she  '11  want  to  be  dried."  True,  O 


GALA-DAYS.  199 

driver  !  and  thrice  that  morning  you  stopped  to 
change  horses,  and  thrice  with  knightly  grace  you 
helped  me  down  from  the  coach-top,  gentle-handed 
and  smooth  of  brow  and  tongue,  as  if  no  storm  had 
ever  lowered  on  that  brow  or  muttered  on  that 
tongue,  and  thrice  I  went  into  the  village  inns  and 
brooded  over  the  hospitable  stoves,  and  dried  my 
dripping  garments  ;  and  when  once  your  voice  rang 
through  the  hostelrie,  while  yet  I  was  enveloped  in 
clouds  of  steam,  did  not  the/  good  young  woman 
seize  her  sizzling  flat-iron  from  the  stove,  and  iron 
me  out  on  her  big  table,  so  that  I  went  not  only 
dry  and  comfortable,  but  smooth,  uncreased,  and 
respectable,  forth  into  the  outer  world  again  ? 


VI. 


HUS  I  rode,  amphibious  and  happy, 
on  the  top  of  the  coach,  with  only  one 
person  sharing  the  seat  with  me,  and 
he  fortunately  a  stranger,  and  there- 
fore sweet-tempered,  and  a  very  agreeable  and 
intelligent  man,  talking  sensibly  when  he  talked 
at  all,  and  talking  at  all  only  now  and  then. 
Very  agreeable  and  polite  ;  but  presently  he  asked 
me  in  courteous  phrase  if  he  might  smoke,  and 
of  course  I  said  yes,  and  the  fragrant  white  smoke- 
wreaths  mingled  with  the  valley  vapors,  and  as  I 
sat  narcotized  and  rapt,  looking,  looking,  looking 
into  the  lovely  landscape,  and  looking  it  into  me, 
twisting  the  jagged  finger-ends  of  my  gloves  around  • 
the  protruding  ends  of  my  fingers,  —  dreadfully 
jagged  and  forlorn  the  poor  gloves  looked  with 
their  long  travel.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  in 
all  the  novels  that  I  ever  read,  the  heroines  always 
have  delicate,  spotless,  exquisite  gloves,  which  are 
continually  lying  about  in  the  garden-paths,  and 
which  their  lovers  are  constantly  picking  up  and 


GALA-DAYS.  201 

pressing  to  their  hearts  and  lips,  and  treasuring 
in  little  golden  boxes  or  something,  and  saying 
how  like  the  soft  glove,  pure  and  sweet,  is  to 
the  beloved  owner;  and  it  is  all  very  pretty, 
but  I  cannot  think  how  they  manage  it.  I  am 
sure  I  should  be  very*  sorry  to  have  my  lovers 
go  about  picking  up  my  gloves.  I  don't  have 
them  a  week  before  they  change  color ;  the  thumb 
gapes  at  its  base,  the  little  finger  rips  away  from 
the  next  one,  and  they  all  burst  out  at  the  ends  ; 
a  stitch  drops  in  the  back  and  slides  down  to 
the  wrist  before  you  know  it  has  started.  You 
can  mend,  to  be  sure,  but  for  every  darn  yawn 
twenty  holes.  I  admire  a  dainty  glove  as  much 
as  any  one.  I  look  with  enthusiasm  not  unmin- 
gled  with  despair  at  these  gloves  of  romance ; 
but  such  things  do  not  depend  entirely  upon 
taste,  as  male  writers  seem  to  think.  A  pair 
of  gloves  cost  a  dollar  and  a  half,  and  when  you 
have  them,  your  lovers  do  not  find  them  in  the 
summer-house.  Why  not?  Because  they  are 
lying  snugly  wrapped  in  oiled-silk  in  the  upper 
bureau-drawer,  only  to  be  taken  out  on  great  occa- 
sions. You  would  as  soon  think  of  wearing  Vic- 
toria's crown  for  a  head-dress,  as  those  gloves  on  a 
picnic.  So  it  happens  that  the  gloves  your  lovers 
find  will  be  sure  to  be  Lisle-thread,  and  dingy  and 
battered  at  that ;  for  how  can  you  pluck  flowers  and 
pull  vines  and  tear  away  mosses  without  getting 
them  dingy  and  battered  ?  —  and  the  most  fastid- 


202  GALA-DA  YS. 

ious  lover  in  the  world  cannot  expect  you  to  buy 
a  new  pair  every  time.  For  me,  I  keep  my 
gloves  as  long  as  the  backs  hold  together,  and 
go  around  for  forty-five  weeks  of  the  fifty-two 
with  my  hands  clenched  into  fists  to  cover  omis- 
sions. 

Let  us  not,  however,  dismiss  the  subject  with 
this  apologetic  notice,  for  ther^  is  another  side. 
There  is  a  basis  of  attack,  as  well  as  defence.  I 
not  only  apologize,  but  stand  up  for  this  much- 
abused  article.  Though  worn  gloves  are  indeed 
less  beautiful  than  fresh  ones,  they  have  more 
character.  Take  one  just  from  the  shop,  how 
lank  and  wan  it  is,  —  a  perfect  monotony  of  in- 
sipidity; but  in  a  day  or  two  it  plumps  out,  it 
curls  over,  it  wabs  up,  it  wrinkles  and  bulges  and 
stands  alone.  All  the  joints  and  hollows  and 
curves  and  motions  of  your  hands  speak  through 
its  outlines.  Twists  and  rips  and  scratches  and 
stains  bear  silent  witness  of  your  agitation,  your 
activity,  your  merry-making.  Here  breaks  through 
the  irrepressible  energy  of  your  nature.  Let  harm- 
less negatives  rejoice  in  their  stupid  integrity. 
Genius  is  expansive  and  iconoclastic.  Enterprise 
cannot  be  confined  by  kid  or  thread  or  silk.  The  life 
that  is  in  you  must  have  full  swing,  even  if  snap 
go  the  buttons  and  gray  go  the  gloves.  Truly,  if 
historians  had  but  eyes  to  see,  the  record  of  one's 
experience  might  be  written  out  from  the  bureau- 
drawer.  Happy  a  thousand  times  that  historians 
have  not  eyes  to  see. 


GALA-DA  YS.  203 

As  to  mending  gloves,  after  the  first  attack  it 
is  time  lost.  Let  one  or  two  pairs,  kept  for  show 
and  state,  be  irreproachable  ;  but  the  rest  are  for 
service,  and  everybody  knows  that  little  serving 
can  be  done  with  bandaged  hands.  You  must 
take  hold  of  things  without  gloves,  or,  which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing,  with  gloves  that  let 
your  fingers  through,  or  you  cannot  reasonably 
expect  to  take  hold  of  things  with  any  degree  of 
efficiency. 

So,  as  I  was  saying,  I  sat  on  the  coach-top 
twisting  my  gloves,  and  I  wished  in  my  heart  that 
men  would  not  do  such  things  as  that  very  agree- 
able gentleman  was  doing.  I  do  not  design  to 
enter  on  a  crusade  against  tobacco.  It  is  a  mooted 
point  in  minor  morals,  in  which  every  one  must 
judge  for  himself;  but  I  do  wish  men  would  not 
smoke  so  much.  In  fact,  I  should  be  pleased  if 
they  did  not  smoke  at  all.  I  do  not  believe  there 
is  any  necessity  for  it.  I  believe  it  is  a  mere  habit 
of  self-indulgence.  Women  connive  at  it,  because 
—  well,  because,  in  a  way,  they  must.  Men  arc 
childish,  and,  as  I  have  said  before,  animal.  I  don't 
think  they  have  nearly  the  self-restraint,  self-denial, 
high  dignity  and  purity  and  conscience  that  women 
have,  —  take  them  in  the  mass.  They  give  over 
to  habits  and  pleasures  like  great  boys.  People 
talk  about  the  extravagance  of  women.  .  But  men 
are  equally  so,  only  their  extravagance  takes  a 
different  turn.  A  woman's  is,  aesthetic ;  a  man's 


204  GALA-DA  YS. 

is  gross.  She  buys  fine  clothes  and  furniture. 
He  panders  to  his  bodily  appetites.  Which  is 
worse  ?  Women  love  men,  and  wish  to  be  loved 
by  them,  and  are  miserable  if  they  are  not.  So 
the  wife  lets  her  husband  do  twenty  things  which 
he  ought  not  to  do,  which  it  is  rude  and  selfish 
and  wicked  for  him  to  do,  rather  than  ran  the  risk 
of  loosening  the  cords  which  bind  him  .to  her. 
One  can  see  every  day  how  women  manage,  — 
the  very  word  tells  the  whole  story,  —  manage 
men,  by  cunning  strategy,  cajolery,  and  all  man- 
ner of  indirections,  just  as  if  they  were  elephants. 
But  if  men  were  what  they  ought  to  be,  there 
would  be  no  such  humiliating  necessity.  They 
ought  to  be  so  upright,  so  candid,  so  just,  that  it  is 
only  necessary  to  show  this  is  right,  this  is  reason- 
able, this  is  wrong,  for  them  to  do  it,  or  to  refrain 
from  the  doing.  As  it  is,  men  smoke  by  the  hour 
together,  and  their  wives  are  thankful  it  is  nothing 
worse.  They  would  not  dare  to  make  a  serious 
attempt  to  annihilate  the  pipe.  They  feel  that 
they  hold  their  own  by  a  tenure  so  uncertain,  that 
they  are  forced  to  ignore  minor  transgressions  for 
the  sake  of  retaining  their  throne.  I  do  not  say 
that  women  are  entirely  just  and  upright,  but  I  do 
think  that  the  womanly  nature  is  good-er  than  the 
manly  nature ;  I  think  a  very  large  proportion  of 
female  faults  are  the  result  of  the  indirect,  but  effec- 
tive wrong  training  they  receive  from  men  ;  and  I 
think,  thirdly,  that,  take  women  just  as  they  are, 


GALA-DAYS.  205 

wrong  training  and  all,  there  is  not  one  in  ten 
hundred  thousand  million  who,  if  she  had  a  faithful 
and  loving  husband,  would  not  be  a  faithful  and 
loving  wife.  Men  know  this,  and  act  upon  it. 
They  know  that  they  can  commit  minor  immorali- 
ties, and  major  ones  too,  and  be  forgiven.  They 
know  it  is  not  necessary  for  them  to  keep  them- 
selves pure  in  body  and  soul  lest  they  alienate 
their  wives.  So  they  yield  to  their  fleshly  lusts. 
What  an  ado  would  be  made  if  a  woman  should 
form  the  habit  of  smoking,  or  any  habit  whose 
deleterious  effects  extend  through  her  husband's 
or  her  father's  rooms,  cling  to  his  wardrobe,  books, 
and  all  his  especial  belongings  !  Suppose  she 
should  even  demand  an  innocent  ice-cream  as 
frequently  as  her  husband  demands  a  cigar,  —  sup- 
pose she  should  spend  as  much  time  and  money  on 
candy  as  he  spends  on  tobacco,  —  would  she  not  be 
considered  an  extravagant,  selfish,  and  somewhat 
vulgar  woman  ?  But  is  it  really  any  worse  ?  Is 
it  less  extravagant  for  a  man  to  tickle  his  nose, 
than  for  a  woman  to  tickle  her  palate  ?  If  a  cigar 
would  enfoul  the  purity  of  a  woman,  does  it  not  of 
a  man  ?  Why  is  it  more  noble  for  a  man  to  be 
the  slave  of  an  appetite  or  a  habit,  than  for  a  wo- 
man ?  Why  is  it  less  impure  for  a  man  to  saturate 
his  hair,  his  breath  and  clothing,  with  vile,  stale 
odors,  than  for  a  woman  ?  What  right  have  men 
to  suppose  that  they  can  perfume  themselves  with 
stenches,  —  for  whatever  may  be  the  fragrance  of 


206  GALA-DAYS. 

a  burning  cigar,  the  after  smell  is  a  stench,  —  and 
be  any  less  offensive  to  a  cleanly  woman  than  a 
woman  similarly  perfumed  is  to  them?  I  have 
never  heard  that  the  female  sense  of  smell  is  less 
acute  than  the  male.  How  dare  men  so  presume 
on  womanly  sufferance  ?  They  dare,  because  they 
know  they  are  safe.  I  can  think  of  a  dozen  of  my 
own  friends  who  will  read  this  and  bring  out  a 
fresh  box  of  cigars,  and  smoke  them  under  my 
very  own  face  and  eyes,  and  know  all  the  time 
that  I  shall  keep  liking  them  ;  and  the  worst  of  it 
is,  I  know  I  shall,  too.  All  the  same,  I  do  not 
thoroughly  respect  a  man  who  has  a  habit  of 
smoking. 

But  if  men  will  smoke,  as  they  certainly  will, 
because  they  are  animal  and  stubborn  and  self- 
indulgent  and  self-willed,  let  them  at  least  confine 
their  fireworks  to  their  own  apartments.  If  a  wife 
would  rather  admit  her  fuliginous  husband  to  her 
sitting-room  than  forego  his  society  altogether, 
—  as  undoubtedly  most  women  would,  for  you 
see  it  is  not  a  question  between  a  smoky  husband 
and  a  clear  husband,  but  between  a  smoky  one 
and  none  at  all,  because  between  his  wife  and  his 
cigar  the  man  will  almost  invariably  choose  the 
cigar,  —  I  have  nothing  to  say.  But  don't  let  a«. 
man  go  into  other  people's  houses  and  smoke,  or, 
above  all  things,  walk  smoking  by  the  side  of 
women.  No  matter  if  she  does  give  you  per- 
mission when  you  ask  it.  You  should  not  have 


GALA-DA  YS.  207 

asked  it.  We  don't  wish  you  to  do  it,  you  may- 
be sure.  It  is  a  disrespectful  thing.  It  par- 
takes of  the  nature  of  an  insult.  No  matter  how 
grand  or  learned  or  distinguished  you  may  be, 
don't  do  it.  I  saw  once  one  of  our  Cabinet  Min- 
isters walking,  with  his  cigar  in  his  mouth,  by  the 
side  of  the  wife  of  the  British  Minister,  and  it 
lowered  them  both  in  my  opinion,  though  I  don't 
suppose  either  of  them  would  take  it  much  to 
heart  if  they  knew  it.  If  you  are  walking  in  the 
woods  or  fields,  it  may  be  pardonable ;  but  in  the 
public  streets  no  private  compact  can  be  of  any 
avail.  It  is  a  public  mark  of  disrespect.  If  you 
don't  regard  us  enough  to  throw  away  or  keep 
away  your  cigar  when  you  join  us,  just  don't  join 
us.  Keep  your  own  side  of  the  street.  Nobody 
wants  you ;  at  least  I  don't.  Walk  alone  if  you 
like,  or  with  whomsoever  you  can,  but  if  you  walk 
with  me,  you  shall  "  behave  yourself." 

But  how  frightfully  hungry  these  long  coach 
stages  make  one !  especially  among  the  mountains. 
Famine  lurks  in  that  wild  air,  and  is  ever  spring- 
ing upon  the  unwary  traveller.  The  fact  was, 
however,  that  I  had  the  most  dreadful  appetite  all 
the  way  through.  "  Really,"  Halicarnassus  would 
say,  "  it  is  quite  charming  to  see  you  in  such  fine 
health,"  being  at  the  same  time  reduced  to  a  state 
of  extreme  disgust  at  my  rapacity.  He  made  an 
estimate,  one  day,  that  I  had  eaten  since  we  start- 
ed thirty-one  and  a  half  chickens,  and  I  have  no 


208  GALA-DATS. 

doubt  I  had  ;  for  chickens  were  my  piece  de  resist- 
ance as  well  as  entrees;  and  then  they  were  chick- 
ens, not  old  hens,  —  little  specks  of  darlings,  just 
giving  one  hop  from  the  egg-shell  to  the  gridiron, 
and  each  time  the  waiter  only  brought  you  one 
bisegment  of  the  speck,  all  of  whose  edible  possi- 
bilities could  easily  be  salted  down  in  a  thimble.  I 
don't  say  this  by  way  of  complaint.  A  thimble- 
ful of  delicacy  is  better  than  a  "  mountain  of  mum- 
my "  ;  and  here  let  me  put  in  a  word  in  favor  of 
that  much-abused  institution,  hotels.  I  cannot 
see  why  people  should  go  about  complaining  of 
them  as  they  do,  both  in  literature  and  in  life. 
My  experience  has  been  almost  always  favorable. 
In  New  York,  in  Saratoga,  in  Canada,  all  thorough 
the  mountain  district,  we  found  ample  and  ade- 
quate entertainment  for  man  and  beast.  Trollope 
brings  his  sledge-hammer  down  unequivocally.  Of 
course  there  will  be  certain  viands  not  cooked 
precisely  according  to  one's  favorite  method,  and 
at  these  prolonged  dining-tables  you  miss  the 
home-feeling  of  quiet  and  seclusion ;  but  I  should 
like  to  know  if  one  does  not  travel  on  purpose  to 
miss  the  home-feeling  ?  If  that  is  what  he  seeks,  it 
would  be  so  easy  to  stay  at  home.  One  loses  half 
the  pleasure  and  profit  of  travelling  if  he  must  box 
himself  up  with  his  own  party.  It  is  a  good  thing 
to  triturate  against  other  people  occasionally.  For 
eating,  there  are,  to  be  sure,  the  little  oval  dishes 
that  have  so  aroused  Trollopian  and  other  ire ; 


GALA-DAYS.  209 

and  your  mutton,  it  is  true,  is  brought  to  you 
slice-wise,  on  your  plate,  instead  of  the  -whole 
sheep  set  bodily  on  the  table,  —  the  sole  presenta- 
tion appreciated  by  your  time  Briton,  who,  with  the 
traditions  of  his  island  home  still  clinging  to  him, 
conceives  himself  able,  I  suppose,  in  no  other 
way  to  make  sure  that  his  meat  and  maccaroni  are 
not  the  remnants  of  somebody  else's  feast.  But 
let  Britannia's  son  not  flatter  himself  that  so  he 
shall  escape  contamination.  His  precautions  are 
entirely  fruitless.  Suppose  he  does  see  the  whole 
beast  before  him,  and  the  very  bean-vines,  proof 
positive  of  first-fruits ;  cannot  the  economical 
landlord  gather  up  heave-shoulder  and  wave- 
breast  and  serve  them  out  to  him  in  next  day's 
mince-pie  ?  Matter  revolves,  but  is  never  annihi- 
lated. Ultimate  and  penultimate  meals  mingle  in 
like  the  colors  of  shot-silk.  "Where  there  is  a  will, 
there  is  a  way.  If  the  cook  is  of  a  frugal  mind, 
and  wills  you  to  eat  driblets,  driblets  you  shall  eat, 
under  one  shape  or  another.  The  only  way  to 
preserve  your  peace,  is  to  be  content  with  appear- 
ances. Take  what  is  set  before  you,  asking  no 
questions  for  conscience'  sake.  If  it  looks  nice, 
that  is  enough.  Eat  and  be  thankful. 

Trollope  says  he  never  made  a  single  comfort- 
able meal  at  an  American  hotel.  The  meat  was 
swimming  in  grease,  and  the  female  servants  un- 
civil, impudent,  dirty,  slow,  and  provoking.  Occa- 
sionally they  are  a  little  slow,  it  must  be  confessed  ; 


210  GALA-DAYS. 

but  I  never  met  with  one,  male  or  female,  who  was 
uncivil,  impudent,  or  provoking.  If  I  supposed  it 
possible  that  my  voice  should  ever  reach  our  late 
critic,  whose  good  sense  and  good  spirit  Ameri- 
cans appreciate,  and  whose  name  they  would  be 
glad  to  honor  if  everything  English  had  not  become 
suspicious  to  us,  the  possible  synonyme  of  Pharisa- 
ism or  stupidity,  I  should  recommend  to  him  Lord 
Chesterfield's  assertion,  that  a  man's  own  good 
breeding  is  the  best  security  against  other  people's 
bad  manners.  For  the  greasy  meats,  let  him  fore- 
go meats  altogether  and  take  chickens,  and  he  will 
not  find  grease  enough  to  soil  his  best  coat,  if  he 
should  carry  the  chick  away  in  his  pocket.  We 
alwavs  found  a  sufficient  variety  to  enable  us  to 
choose  a  wholesome  and  a  toothsome  dinner,  with 
many  tempting  dainties,  and  scores  of  dishes  that 
I  never  heard  of  before,  and  ordered  dubiously  by 
way  of  experiment,  and  tasted  timorously  in  pur- 
suit of  knowledge.  As  for  the  corn-cake  of  the 
White  Hills,  if  I  live  a  thousand  years,  I  never 
expect  anything  in  the  line  of  biscuit,  loaf,  or  cakes 
more  utterly  satisfactory.  It  is  the  very  ultimate 
crystallization  of  cereals,  the  poetry  and  rhythm  of 
bread,  brown  and  golden  to  the  eye,  like  the  lush 
loveliness  of  October,  crumbling  to  the  touch,  un- 
utterable to  the  taste.  It  has  all  the  ethereal, 
evanishing  fascination  of  a  npirit.  Eve  might  have 
set  it  before  Raphael.  You  scarcely  dare  touch  it 
lest  it  disappear  and  leave  you  disappointed  and 


GALA-DAYS.  211 

desolate.  It  is  melting,  insinuating,  —  a  halo, 
hovering  on  the  border-land  of  dream  and  reality, 
a  beautiful  but  uncertain  vision,  a  dissolving  view. 
I  said  something  of  the  sort  to  Halicarnassus  one 
morning,  and  he  said,  Yes,  it  was  —  on  my  plate. 
And  yet  I  have  never  had  as  much  as  I  wanted 
of  it,  —  never.  The  others  were  perpetually  fin- 
ishing their  breakfast  and  compelling  me,  by  a  kind 
of  moral  violence,  to  finish  mine.  I  made  an  at- 
tempt one  morning,  the  last  of  my  sojourn  among 
the  Delectable  Mountains,  when  the  opposing  ele- 
ments had  left  the  table  prematurely  to  make 
arrangements  for  departure,  and  startled  the  waiter 
by  ordering  an  unlimited  supply  of  corn-cake. 
Like  a  thunder-bolt  fell  on  my  ear  the  terrible 
answer  :  "  Xnere  i§  n't  any  this  morning.  It  is 
brown  bread."  Me  miserable  ! 

As  we  went  to  dinner,  in  a  large  dining-room, 
upon  our  arrival  at  the  Glen  House,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  guests  were  the  most  refined  and  ele- 
gant in  their  general  appearance  of  any  company 
I  had  seen  since  my  departure,  and  I  had  a  pleas- 
ant New-English  feeling  of  self-gratulation.  But 
we  were  drawn  up  into  line  directly  opposite  a 
row  of  young  girls,  who  really  made  me  very 
uncomfortable.  They  were  at  an  advanced  stage 
of  their  dinner  when  we  entered,  and  they  de- 
voted themselves  to  making  observations.  It  was 
not  curiosity,  or  admiration,  or  astonishment,  or 
ho.  ror.  It  \vas  simply  fixedness.  They  displayed 


212  .          GALA-DAYb. 

no  emotion  whatever,  but  every  time  your  glance 
reached  within  forty-five  degrees  of  them,  there 
they  were  "  staring  right  on  with  calm,  eternal 
eyes,"  and  kept  at  it  till  the  servants  created  a 
diversion  with  the  dessert.  Now,  if  there  is  any- 
thing that  annoys  and  disconcerts  me,  it  is  to  be 
looked  at.  Some  women  would  have  put  them 
down,  but  I  never  can  put*  anybody  down.  It  is 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  hold  my  own,  —  and  more, 
unless  I  am  with  well-bred  people  who  always 
keep  their  equilibriums.  One  of  these  girls  was 
the  companion  of  a  venerable  and  courtly  gentle- 
man ;  and  the  thought  arose,  How  is  it  possible 
for  this  girl  to  have  possibly  that  man's  blood  in 
her  veins,  certainly  the  aroma  of  his  life  floating 
around  her,  and  the  faultless  model  of  his  de- 
meanor before  her,  and  not  be  the  mirror  of  every 
grace  ?  Of  how  little  avail  is  birth  or  breeding, 
if  the  instinct  of  politeness  be  not  in  the  heart. 
That  last  remark,  however,  must  "  right  about 
face  "  in  order  to  be  just.  If  the  instincts  be 
true,  birth  and  breeding  are  comparatively  of  no 
account,  for  the  heart  will  dictate  to  the  quick  eye 
and  hand  and  voice  the  proper  course  ;  but  where 
the  instincts  are  wanting,  breeding  is  indispensable 
to  supply  the  deficiency.  What  one  cannot  do 
by  nature  he  must  do  by  drill.  Sometimes  it  seems 
to  me  that  young  girlhood  is  intolerable.  There 
is  much  delightful  writing  about  it,  —  rose-buds 
and  peach-blossoms  and  timid  fawns;  but  the 


GALA-DAYS.  213 

timid  fawns  are  scarce  in  streets  and  hotels  and 
schools,  —  or  perhaps  it  is  that  the  fawns  who  are 
not  timid  draw  all  eyes  upon  themselves,  and  make 
an  impression  entirely  disproportionate  to  their 
numbers.  I  am  thinking  now,  I  regret  to  say, 
of  New  England  young  girls.  Where  they  are 
charming,  they  are  irresistible  ;  they  need  yield  to 
nobody  in  the  known  world.  But  I  do  think  that 
an  uninteresting  Yankee  girl  is  the  most  uninter- 
esting of  all  created  objects.  Southern  girls  have 
almost  always  tender  voices  and  soft  manners. 
Arrant  nonsense  comes  from  their  lips  with  such 
sweet  syllabic  flow,  such  little  ripples  of  pronun- 
ciation and  musical  interludes,  that  you  are  at- 
tracted and  held  without  the  smallest  regard  to 
what  they  are  saying.  I  could  sit  for  hours  and 
hear  two  of  them  chattering  over  a  checker-board 
just  for  the  pleasure  of  the  silvery,  tinkling  music 
of  their  voices.  But  woe  is  me  for  the  voices,  male 
and  female,  that  you  so  often  hear  in  New  Eng- 
land, —  the  harsh,  strident  voices,  the  monotonous, 
cranky,  yanky,  filing,  rasping  voices,  without 
modulation,  all  rise  and  no  fall,  a  monotonous 
discord,  no  soul,  no  feeling,  and  no  counterfeit  of 
it,  loud,  positive,  angular,  and  awful.  Indeed, 
I  do  not  see  how  we  New-Englanders  are  ever  to 
rid  ourselves  of  the  reproach  of  our  voices.  The 
number  of  people  who  speak  well  is  not  large 
enough  materially  to  influence  the  rest.  Teachers 
do  not  teach  speaking  in  school,  —  they  certainly 


214  GALA-DAYS. 

did  not  in  my  day,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose 
from  results  that  they  do  now,  —  and  parents  do 
not  teach  it  at  home,  for  the  simple  reason,  I  sup- 
pose, that  they  do  not  know  it  themselves.  We 
can  all  perceive  the  discord  ;  but  how  to  produce 
concord,  that  is  the  question.  This  one  thing, 
however,  is  practicable :  if  sweetness  cannot  be 
increased,  volume  can  be  diminished.  If  you  can 
not  make  the  right  kind  of  noise,  you  can  at  least 
make  as  little  as  possible  of  the  wrong  kind.  Of- 
ten the  discord  extends  to  manners.  Public  con- 
veyances and  public  places  produce  so  many  girls 
who  are  not  gentle,  retiring,  shady,  attractive. 
They  are  flingy  and  sharp  and  saucy,  without  being 
piquant.  They  take  on  airs  without  having  the 
beauty  or  the  brilliancy  which  alone  makes  airs 
delightful.  They  agonize  to  make  an  impression, 
and  they  make  it,  but  not  always  in  the  line  of 
then:  intent.  Setting  out  to  be  picturesque,  they 
become  uncouth.  They  are  ridiculous  when  they 
mean  to  be  interesting,  and  silly  when  they  try  to 
be  playful.  If  they  would  only  leave  off  attitudi- 
nizing, one  would  be  appeased.  It  may  not  be  pos- 
sible to  acquire  agreeable  manners,  any  more  than 
a  pleasant  voice  ;  but  it  is  possible  to  be  quiet. 
But  no  suspicion  of  defect  seems  ever  to  have 
penetrated  the  bosoms  of  such  girls.  They  act  as 
if  they  thought  attention  was  admiration.  Levity 
they  mistake  for  vivacity.  Peevishness  is  elegance. 
Boldness  is  dignity.  Rudeness  is  savoir  faire 


GALA-DAYS.  215 

Boisterousness  is  their  vulgate  for  youthful  high 
spirits. 

And  what,  let  me  ask  just  here,  is  the  meaning 
of  the  small  waists  that  girls  are  cramming  their 
lives  into  ?  I  thought  tight-lacing  was  an  effete 
superstition  clean  gone  forever.  But  again  and 
again,  last  summer,  I  saw  this  wretched  disease, 
this  cacoethes  pectus  vinciendi,  breaking  out  with 
renewed  and  increasing  virulence ;  and  I  heard 
women — yes,  grown-up  women,  old  women — • 
talking  ahout  the  "  Grecian  bend,"  and  the  taper 
ing  line  of  the  slender,  willowy  waist.  Now,  girls, 
when  you  have  laced  yourselves  into  a  wand,  do 
not  be  so  infatuated  as  to  suppose  that  any  sensible 
person  looks  at  you  and  thinks  of  willows.  Not  in 
the  least.  Probably  he  is  wondering  how  you 
manage  to  breathe.  As  for  the  Grecian  bend, 
you  have  been  told  over  and  over  again  that  no 
Grecian  woman,  whether  in  the  flesh  or  in  the 
stone,  ever  bent  such  a  figure,  —  spoiled  if  it  was 
originally  good,  made  worse  if  it  was  originally 
bad.  You  wish  to  be  beautiful,  and  it  is  a  laudable 
wish  ;  but  nothing  is  beautiful  which  is  not  loyal, 
truthful,  natural.  You  need  not  take  my  simple 
word  for  it ;  I  do  not  believe  a  doctor  can  any- 
where be  found  who  will  say  that  compression  is 
healthful,  or  a  sculptor  who  will  say  that  it  is 
beautiful.  Which  now  is  the  higher  art,  the  sculp- 
tor's or  the  mantua-maker's  ?  Which  is  most 
likely  to  be  right,  the  man  (or  the  woman)  who 


216  GALA-DAYS. 

devotes  his  life  to  the  study  of  beauty  and  strength, 
both  in  essence  and  expression,  or  the  woman  who 
is  concerned  only  with  clipping  and  trimming  ? 
Which  do  you  think  takes  the  more  correct  view, 
he  who  looks  upon  the  human  body  as  God's  handi- 
work, a  thing  to  be  reverenced,  to  be  studied,  to 
be  obeyed,  or  one  who  admires  it  according  as  it 
varies  more  or  less  from  the  standard  of  a  fashion- 
plate,  who  considers  it  as  entirely  subordinate  to 
the  prevailing  mode,  and  who  hesitates  at  no  de- 
vices to  bring  it  down  to  the  desired  and  utterly 
arbitrary  dimensions  ?  This  is  what  you  do  ;  you 
give  yourselves  up  into  the  hands,  or  you  yield 
submissively  to  the  opinions,  of  people  who  make 
no  account  whatever  of  the  form  or  the  functions 
of  nature ;  who  have  never  made  their  profession 
a  liberal  one  ;  who  never  seem  to  suspect  that  God 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  human  frame  ;  \vho, 
whatever  station  in  life  they  occupy,  have  not  pos- 
sessed themselves  of  the  first  principles  of  beauty 
and  grace,  while  you  ignore  the  opinions,  and  lay 
yourself  open  to  the  contempt,  of  those  whose  nat- 
ural endowments  and  whose  large  and  varied  cul- 
ture give  them  the  strongest  claim  upon  your 
deference.  The  woman  who  binds  the  human 
frame  into  such  shapes  as  haunted  the  hotels  last 
summer,  whether  she  be  a  dressmaker  or  a  Queen 
of  Fashion,  is  a  woman  ignorant  alike  of  the  laws 
of  health  and  beauty ;  and  every  woman  who  sub- 
mits to  such  distortion  is  either  ignorant  or  weak. 


GALA-DAYS.  217 

The  body  is  fearfully  and  wonderfully  and  beau- 
tifully made,  a  glorious  possession,  a  fair  and  noble 
edifice,  the  Temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  beautiful 
for  its  symmetry,  for  its  adaptations,  for  its  uses  ; 
and  they  who  deform  and  degrade  it  by  a  fashion 
founded  in  ignorance,  fostered  by  folly,  and  fruitful 
of  woe,  are  working  a  work  which  can  be  forgiven 
them  only  when  they  know  not  what  they  do. 

If  this  is  not  true,  then  I  know  not  what  truth 
is.  If  it  is  not  a  perfectly  plain  and  patent  truth, 
on  the  very  face  of  it,  then  I  am  utterly  incapable 
of  distinguishing  between  truth  and  falsehood. 
Yet,  if  it  is  true,  how  account  for  the  tight-lacing 
among  women  who  are  in  a  position  to  be  just  as 
intelligent  as  the  doctor  and  the  sculptor  are? 

Girls,  I  find  a  great  deal  of  fault  with  you,  do  I 
not?  But  I  cannot  help  it.  You  have  been  so 
written  and  talked  and  sung  and  flattered  into 
absurdity  and  falsehood,  that  there  is  nothing  left 
but  to  stab  you  with  short,  sharp  words.  If  I 
chide  you  without  cause,  if  I  censure  that  which  is 
not  censurable,  if  I  attribute  to  a  class  that  which 
belongs  only  to  individuals,  if  I  intimate  that  un- 
gentle voices,  uncultivated  language,  and  unpleas- 
ing  manners  are  common  when  they  are  really 
uncommon,  if  I  assume  to  demand  more  than 
every  person  who  loves  his  country  and  believes 
in  his  countrywomen  has  a  right  to  demand,  on 
me  be  all  the  blame.  But  for  ten  persons  who 
will  give  you  flattery  and  sneers,  you  will  not  fina 


218  GALA-DA  YS. 

one  who  will  tell  you  wholesome  truths.  I  will 
tell  you  what  seems  to  me  true  and  wholesome. 
Poetasters  and  cheap  sentimentalists  will  berhyme 
and. beguile  you:  I  cannot  help  it;  but  I  will  at 
least  attempt  to  administer  the  corrective  .of  what 
should  be  common  sense.  The  Magister  was 
forced  to  let  Von  Falterle  have  a  hand  in  Albano's 
education,  but  he  "  swore  to  weed  as  much  out  of 
him  every  day  as  that  other  fellow  raked  in." 
Dilettanteism  prattles  pleasant  things  to  you :  I 
want  you  to  be  everything  that  is  pleasant.  Where 
a  fulsome  if  not  a  false  adulation  praises  your  slen- 
der grace,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  tell  you  that  I 
see  neither  slenderness  nor  grace,  but  ribs  crushed 
in,  a  diaphragm  flattened  down,  liver  and  stomach 
and  spleen  and  pancreas  jammed  out  of  place,  out 
of  shape,  out  of  use ;  and  that,  if  you  were  born  so, 
humanity  would  dictate  that  you  should  pad  liber- 
ally, to  save  beholders  from  suffering ;  but  of 
malice  aforethought  so  to  contract  yourselves  is 
barbarism  in  the  first  degree.  And  all  the  while 
I  am  saying,  these  homely  things,  I  shall  have  ten 
thousand  times  more  real  regard  and  veneration 
for  you  than  your  venders  of  dainty  compliments. 
Regard?  Jenny,  Lilly,  Carry,  Hetty,  Fanny, 
and  the  rest  of  you,  dearly  beloved  and  longed 
for, —  Mary,  my  queen,  my  singing-bird,  a  royal 
captive,  but  she  shall  'come  to  her  crown  one 
day,  —  my  two  Ellens,  graceful  and  brilliant,  — 
and  you,  my  sweet-mouthed,  soft-eyed  islander, 


GALA-DAYS.  219 

with  your  life  deep  and  boundless  like  the  sea  that 
lulled  you  to  baby-slumbers,  —  knowing  you,  shall 
I  talk  of  regard  ?  Knowing  you,  and  from  you, 
all,  do  I  not  know  what  girls  can  be  ?  Sometimes 
it  seems  as  if  no  one  knows  girls  except  me.  If 
the  world  did  but  know  you,  if  it  knew  what 
deeps  are  in  you,  what  strength  and  salvation  for 
the  race  lie  dormant  in  your  dormant  powers, 
surely  it  would  throw  off  the  deference  that  masks 
contempt  and  give  you  the  right  hand  of  royal 
fellowship. 

And  if,  in  the  world  just  as  it  is,  girls  did  but 
know  themselves !  If  they  did  but  know  how  de- 
lightful, how  noble  and  ennobling,  how  gracious 
and  consoling  and  helpful,  they  might  be,  how 
wearied  eyes  might  love  to  rest  upon  them,  how 
sore  hearts  might  be  healed,  and  weak  hearts 
strengthened,  by  the  fragrance  of  their  unfolding 
youth !  There  is  not  one  gill  in  a  thousand,  North 
or  South,  who  might  not  be  lovely  and  beloved. 
I  do  not  reckon  on  a  difference  of  race  in  North 
and  South,  as  the  manner  of  some  is.  The  great 
mass  of  girls  whom  one  meets  in  schools  and 
public  places  are  the  ones  who  in  the  South  would 
be  the  listless,  ragged  daughters  of  poverty.  The 
great  mass  of  Southern  girls  that  we  see  are  the 
cherished  and  cultivated  upper  classes,  and  answer 
only  to  our  very  best.  Like  should  always  be  com- 
pared with  like.  And  I  am  not  afraid  to  compare 
our  best,  high-born  or  lowly,  with  the  best  of  any 


220  GALA-DAYS. 

class  or  country.  They  have,  besides  all  that  is 
beautiful,  a  substantial  substratum  of  sound  sense, 
high  principle,  practical  benevolence,  and  hidden 
resources.  To  behold  them,  they  sparkle  like 
diamonds.  To  know  them,  they  are  beneficent  as 
iron.  Let  all  the  others  emulate  these.  Let  none 
be  content  with  being  intelligent.  Let  them  de- 
termine also  to  be  full  of  grace. 

Among  the  girls  that  I  saw  on  my  journey  who 
did  not  please  me,  there  were  several  who  did,  — 
several  of  whom  occasional  glimpses  promised 
pleasant  things,  if  only  there  were  opportunity  to 
grasp  them,  —  and  two  in  particular  who  have 
left  an  abiding  picture  in  my  gallery.  Let  me 
from  pure  delight  linger  over  the  portraiture. 

Two  sisters  taken  a-pleasuring  by  their  father,  — 
the  younger  anywhere  from  fourteen  to  eighteen 
years  old,  the  elder  anywhere  from  sixteen  to 
twenty ;  —  this  tall  and  slender,  with  a  modest, 
sensitive,  quiet,  womanly  dignity ;  that  animated, 
unconscious,  and  entirely  girlish  ;  —  the  one  with 
voice  low  and  soft,  the  other  low  and  clear.  The 
father  was  an  educated  and  accomplished  Chris- 
tian gentleman.  The  relations  between  the  two 
were  most  interesting.  His  demeanor  towards 
them  was  a  charming  combination  of  love  and 
courtesy.  Theirs  to  him  was  at  once  confiding 
and  polite.  The  best  rooms,  the  best  seats,  the  best 
positions,  were  not  assumed  by  them  or  yielded  to 
them  with  the  rude  tyranny  on  one  side  and  mean 


GALA-DAYS.  221 

servility  on  the  other  which  one  too  often  sees, 
but  pressed  upon  them  with  true  knightly  chivalry, 
and  received,  not  carelessly  as  due  and  usual,  but 
with  affectionate  deprecation  and  reluctance.  Yet 
there  was  not  the  slightest  affectation  of  affection, 
than  which  no  affectation  is  more  nauseous.  True 
affection,  undoubtedly,  does  often  exist  where  its 
expression  is  caricatured,  but  the  caricature  is  not 
less  despicable.  The  pride  of  the  father  in  his 
daughters  was  charming,  —  it  was  so  natural,  so 
fatherly,  so  frank,  so  irresistible,  and  never  offen- 
sively exhibited.  There  was  not  a  taint  of  show 
or  selfishness  in  their  mutual  regard.  They  had- 
eyes  and  ears  and  ready  hands  for  everybody. 

And  they  were  admirable  travellers.  They 
never  had  any  discomforts.  They  never  found 
the  food  bad,  or  the  beds  hard,  or  the  servants 
stupid.  They  never  were  tired  when  anything 
was  to  be  done,  or  cross  when  it  had  been  done, 
or  under  any  circumstances  peevish,  or  pouty,  or 
"  offish."  They  were  ready  for,  everything  and 
content  with  anything.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  give 
them  a  pleasure,  because  their  pleasure  was  so 
manifest.  They  looked  eagerly  at  everything  and 
into  everything.  The  younger  one,  indeed,  was 
so  interested,  that  she  often  forgot  her  feet  in  her 
bright,  observant  eyes,  which  would  lead  her  right 
on  and  on,  regardless  of  the  course  of  others,  till 
she  was  discovered  to  be  missing,  a  search  insti- 
tuted, and  the  wanderer  returned  smiling,  but  not 


222    '  GALA-DAYS. 

disconcerted.  They  were  never  restless,  uneasy, 
discontented,  wanting  to  go  somewhere  else,  or 
stay  longer  when  every  one  was  ready  to  go, 
or  annoying  their  friends  by  rushing  into  need- 
less danger.  They  never  brought  their  personal 
tastes  into  conflict  with  the  general  convenience. 
They  were  .thoroughly  free  from  affectation.  They 
never  seemed  to  say  or  do  anything  with  a  view 
to  the  impression  it  would  make,  or  even  to  sus- 
pect that  they  should  make  an  impression.  They 
were  just  fond  enough  of  dress  to  array  themselves 
with  neatness,  freshness,  a  pretty  little  touch  of 
^youthful  ornament,  and  a  very  nice  sense  of  fit- 
ness. But  they  were  never  occupied  with  their 
dress,  and  they  had  only  as  much  as  was  necessary, 
—  though  that  may  have  been  a  mother's  care,  — 
and  what  of  them  was  not  the  result  of  wise  pa- 
rental care  ?  They  did  not  talk  about  gentlemen. 
They  had  evidently  been  brought  up  in  familiar 
contact  with  the  thing,  so  that  no  glamour  hung 
about  the  word.  ,  They  talked  of  places,  people, 
books,  flowers,  all  simple  things,  in  a  simple  way. 
They  were  interested  in  music,  in  pictures,  in 
what  they  saw  and  what  they  did.  They  sang 
and  played  with  fresh,  natural  grace,  to  the  delight 
and  applause  of  all,  and  stopped  soon  enough  to 
make  us  wish  for  more,  but  not  soon  enough  to 
seem  capricious  or  disobliging  or  pert. 

But  my  pen  fails  to  picture  them  to  you  as  I 
saw  them,  —  the  one  with  her  grave,  sweet,  artless 


GALA-DAYS.  223 

dignity,  a  perfect  Honoria,  crowned  with  the  soft 
glory  of  a  dawning  womanhood ;  the  other  docile 
and  sprightly,  careless,  but  not  thoughtless.  The 
beauty  of  their  characters  lay  in  the  perfect  bal- 
ance. Their  qualities  were  set  off  against  each 
other,  and  symmetry  was  the  result.  They  com- 
binecTopposites  into  a  fascinating  harmony.  They 
had  all  the  ease  and  unconcern  of  refined  associa- 
tion, without  the  smallest  admixture  of  forwardness. 
They  were  neither  bold  nor  bashful.  They  neither 
pampered  nor  neglected  themselves,  —  neither 
fawned  upon  nor  insulted  others.  They  were 
everything  that  they  ought  to  be,  and  nothing 
that  they  ought  not  to  be,  and  I  wished  I  could 
put  them  in  a  cage,  and  carry  them  through  the 
countiy,  and  say :  "  Look,  girls,  this  is  what  I 
mean.  This  is  what  I  wish  you  to  be." 

"We  wound  around  the  mountains,  and  wan- 
dered back  and  forth  through  the  defiles  like  the 
Israelites  in  the  wilderness,  seeing  everything  that 
•»vas  to  be  seen,  and  a  good  deal  more.  We  alight- 
ed incessantly,  and  struck  into  little  wood-paths 
nfter  cascades  and  falls,  and  got  them  too,  some- 
times. Of  course  we  penetrated  into  the  dripping 
Flume,  and  paddled  on  the  Pool,  or  the  Basin,  — 
I  have  forgotten  which  they  call  it,  —  for  a  pool 
is  but  a  big  basin,  and  a  basin  a  small  pool.  Of 
course  we  sailed  and  shouted  on  Eeho  Lake,  and 
did  obeisance  to  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountains 
and  his  numerous  and  nondescript  progeny ;  foi 


224  GALA-DAYS. 

he  has  played  pranks  up  there,  and  infected  the 
whole  surrounding  country  with  a  furor  of  per- 
sonality. The  Old  Man  himself  I  acknowledged. 
That  great  stone  face  is  clearly  and  calmly  pro- 
filed against  the  sky.  His  knee,  too,  is  susceptible 
of  proof,  for  I  climbed  it.  A  white  horse  in  the 
vicinity  of  Conway  is  visible  to  the  imaginative 
eye,  and,  by  a  little  forcing  of  vision  and  con- 
science, one  can  make  out  a  turtle,  all  but  the 
head  and  legs.  But  there  is  a  limit  to  all  things, 
and  when  Halicarnassus  held  up  both  hands  in 
astonishment  and  admiration,  and  declared  that 
he  saw  a  kangaroo,  and  then,  in  short  and  rapid 
succession,  a  rhinoceros,  an  armadillo,  and  a 
crocodile,  I  felt,  in  the  words  of  General  Banks, 
"  "We-'have  now  reached  that  limit,"  and  shut  down 
the  gates  upon  credulity. 

At  a  little  village  among  the  mountains  we  me* 
our  friends,  and  stopped  a  week  or  two,  loath  to 
leave  the  charmed  spot.  "  Where  ?  "  Never  mind. 
A  place  where  the  sun  shines,  and  lavender-hued 
clouds  whirl  in  craggy,  defiant,  thunderous  masses 
around  imperturbable  mountain-tops ;  and  vapors, 
pearly  and  amber-tinted,  have  not  forgotten  to  float 
softly  among  the  valleys ;  and  evening  skies  fling 
out  their  pink  and  purple  banner ;  and  stars  throb, 
and  glow,  and  flash,  with  a  radiant  life  that  is  not 
of  the  earth  ;— where  great  rivers  have  not  yet  put 
on  the  majesty  of  manhood,  but  trill  over  pebbles, 
curl  around  rocks,  ripple  against  banks,  waltz  little 


GALA-DAYS.  225 

eddies,  spread  dainty  pools  for  gay  little  trout,  dash 
up  saucy  spray  into  the  eyes  of  bending  ferns,  mock 
the  frantic  struggles  of  lost  flowers  and  twigs,  tan- 
talizing them,  with  hope  of  a  rest  that  never  comes, 
and  leap  headlong,  swirling  and  singing  with  a 
thousand  silver  tongues,  down  cranny  and  ravine 
in  all  the  wild  winsomeness  of  unchecked  youth ; 

—  a  land  flowing  with  maple-molasses  and  sugar, 
and  cider  apple-sauce,  and  cheese  new  and  old, 
and  baked  beans,  and  three  sermons  on  Sundays, 
besides  Sabbath  school  at  noon,  and  no  time  to  go 
home;  and  wagons  with  three  seats,   \_Mem.  Al- 
ways choose  the  back  seat,  if  you  wish  to  secure 
a  reputation  for  amiability,]  three  on  a  seat,  two 
horses,  and  a  colt  trotting  gravely  beside  his  moth- 
er ;  roads  all  sand  in  the  hollows  and  all  ruts  on 
the  hills,  blocked  up  by  snow  in  the  whiter,  and 
washed  away  by  thunder-showers  in  the  summer ; 

—  a  land  where  carpets  are  disdained,  latches  are 
of  wood,  thieves  unknown,  wainscots  and  wells  au 
naturel,  women  are  as  busy  as  bees  all  day  and  knit 
in  the  chinks,  men  are  invisible  till  evening,  girls 
braid  hats  and  have  beaux,  and  everybody  goes  to 
bed  and  to  sleep  at  nine  o'clock,  and  gets  up  nobody 
knows  when,  and  cooks,  eats,  and  "  clears  away  " 
breakfast  before  other  people  have  fairly  rubbed 
their  eyes  open  ;  where  all  the  town  are  neighbors 
for  ten  miles  round,  and  know  your  outgoings  and 
incomings  without  impertinence,  gossip  without  a 
sting,   are    intelligent  without   pretension,  sturdy 

10*  o 


226  GALA-DAYS. 

•without  rudeness,  honest  without  effort,  and  cher- 
ish an  orthodoxy  true  as  steel,  straight  as  a  pine, 
unimpeachable  in  quality,  and  unlimited  in  quan- 
tity. God  bless  them  !  Late  may  they  return  to 
heaven,  and  never  want  a  man  to  stand  before  tha 
Lord  forever! 

Some  people  have  conscientious  scruples  about 
fishing.  I  respect  them.  I  had  them  once  my- 
self. Wantonly  to  destroy,  for  mere  sport,  the 
innocent  life,  in  lake  and  river,  seemed  to  me  a 
cruelty  and  a  shame.  But  people  must  fish.  Now, 
then,  how  shall  your  theory  and  practice  be  har- 
monized ?  Practice  can't  yield.  Plainly,  theory 
must.  A  year  ago,  I  went  out  on  a  rock  in  the 
Atlantic  Ocean,  held  a  line — just  to  see  how  it 
seemed,  —  and  caught  eight  fishes ;  and  every  time 
a  fish  came  up,  a  scruple  went  down.  They 
were  n't  very  large,  —  the  fishes,  I  mean,  not  the 
scruples,  though  the  same  adjective  might,  per- 
haps, not  unjustly  be  applied  to  both,  —  and  I 
don't  know  that  the  enormity  of  the  sin  depends 
at  air  upon  the  size  of  the  fish;  but  if  it  did,  so 
entirely  had  my  success  convinced  me  of  man's 
lawful  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  that  I 
verily  believe,  if  a  whale  had  hooked  himself  on 
the  end  of  my  line,  I  should  have  hauled  him  up 
without  a  pang. 

I  do  not  insist  that  you  shall  accept  my  system 
of  ethics.  Deplorable  results  might  follow  its  prac- 
tical application  in  every  imaginable  case.  I  sim- 


GALA-DAYS,  227 

ply  state  facts,  leaving  the  "  thoughtful  reader  "  to 
generalize  from  them  whatever  code  he  pleases. 

Which  facts  will  partially  account  for  the  eager- 
ness with  which  I,  one  morning,  seconded  a  pro- 
posal to  go  a-fishing  in  a  river  about  fourteen  miles 
away.  One  wanted  the  scenery,  another  the 
drive,  a  third  a  chowder,  and  so  on  ;  hut  I  —  I 
may  as  well  confess  —  wanted  the  excitement,  the 
fishes,  the  opportunity  of  displaying  my  piscatory 
prowess.  I  enjoyed  in  anticipation  the  masculine 
admiration  and  feminine  chagrin  that  would  ac- 
company the  beautiful,  fat,  shining,  speckled,  pris- 
matic trout  into  my  basket,  while  other  rods  waited 
in  vain  for  a  "  nibble."  I  resolved  to  be  mag- 
nanimous. Modesty  should  lend  to  genius  a 
heightened  charm.  I  would  win  hearts  by  my 
humility,  as  well  as  laurels  by  my  dexterity.  I 
would  disclaim  superior  skill,  attribute  success  to 
fortune,  and  offer  to  distribute  my  spoil  among  the 
discomfited.  Glory,  not  pelf,  was  my  object.  You 
may  imagine  my  disgust  on  finding,  at  the  end  of 
our  journey,  that  there  was  only  one  rod  for  the 
whole  party.  Plenty  of  lines,  but  no  rods.  What 
was  to  be  done  ?  It  was  proposed  to  improvise  rods 
from  the  trees.  "No,"  said  the  female  element. 
"  We  don't  care.  We  should  n't  catch  any  fish. 
We  'd  just  as  soon  stroll  about."  I  bubbled  up,  if 
I  did  n't  boil  over.  "  We  should  n't,  should  we  ? 
Pray,  speak  for  yourselves  !  Did  n't  I  catch  eight 
cod-fishes  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  last  summer  ? 


228  GALA-DA  YS. 

Answer  me  that !  "  I  was  indignant  that  they 
should  so  easily  be  turned  away,  by  the  trivial 
circumstance  of  there  being  no  rods,  from  the  noble 
art  of  fishing.  My  spirits  rose  to  the  height  of  the 
emergency.  The  story  of  my  exploits  makes  an 
impression.  There  is  a  marked  respect  in  the  tone 
of  their  reply.  "  Let  there  be  no  division  among 
us.  Go  you  to  the  stream,  O  Nimrod  of  the  waters, 
since  you  alone  have  the  prestige  of  success.  We 
will  wander  quietly  in  the  woods,  build  a  fire,  fry 
the  potatoes,  and  await  your  return  with  the  fish." 
They  go  to  the  woods.  I  hang  my  prospective 
trout  on  my  retrospective  cod,  and  march  river- 
ward.  Halicarnassus,  according  to  the  old  saw, 
"  leaves  this  world,  and  climbs  a  tree,"  and,  with 
jackknife,  cord,  and  perseverance,  manufactures  a 
fishing-rod,  which  he  courteously  offers  to  me, 
which  I  succinctly  decline,  informing  him  in  no 
ambiguous  phrase  that  I  consider  nothing  beneath 
the  best  as  good  enough  for  me.  Halicarnassus  is 
convinced  by  my  logic,  overpowered  by  my  rhet- 
oric, and  meekly  yields  up  the  best  rod,  though 
the  natural  man  rebels.  The  bank  of  the  river  is 
rocky,  steep,  shrubby,  and  difficult  of  ascent  or 
descent.  Halicarnassus  bids  me  tarry  on  the  bridge, 
while  he  descends  to  reconnoitre.  I  am  acquies- 
cent, and  lean  over  the  railing  awaiting  the  result 
of  investigation.  Halicarnassus  picks  his  way  over 
the  rocks,  sidewise  and  zigzaggy  along  the  bank, 
and  down  the  river,  in  search  of  fish.  I  grow  tired 


GALA-DA  YS.  229 

of  playing  Casabianca,  and  steal  behind  the  bridge, 
and  pick  my  way  over  the  rocks,  sidewise  and  zig- 
zaggy  along  the  bank,  and  up  the  river,  in  search 
of  "  fun  "  ;  practise  irregular  and  indescribable 
gymnastics  with  variable  success  for  half  an  hour 
or  so.  Shout  from  the  bridge.  I  look  up.  Too 
far  off  to  hear  the  words,  but  see  Halicarnassus 
gesticulating  furiously,  and  evidently  laboring  un- 
der great  excitement.  Retrograde  as  rapidly  as  cir- 
cumstances will  permit.  Halicarnassus  makes  a 
speaking-trumpet  of  his  hands,  and  roars,  "  I  've 
FOUND  —  a  FISH  !  LEFT  —  him  for  — "you  —  to 
CATCH!  Come  QUICK!" — and,  plunging  headlong 
down  the  bank,  disappears.  I  am  touched  to  the 
heart  by  this  sublime  instance  of  self-denial  and 
devotion,  and  scramble  up  to  the  bridge,  and 
plunge  down  after  him.  Heel  of  boot  gets  en- 
tangled in  dress  every  third  step,  —  fishing-line  in 
tree-top  every  second ;  progress  consequently  not 
so  rapid  as  could  be  desired.  Reach  the  water  at 
last.  Step  cautiously  from  rock  to  rock  to  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  —  balance  on  a  pebble  just 
large  enough  to  plant  both  feet  on,  and  just  firm 
enough  to  make  it  worth  while  to  run  the  risk,  — 
drop  my  line  into  the  spot  designated,  —  a  quiet, 
black  little  pool  in  the  rushing  river,  —  see  no  fish, 
but  have  faith  in  Halicarnassus. 

"  Bite  ?  "  asks  Halicarnassus,  eagerly. 

"  Not  yet,"  I  answer,  sweetly.  Breathless  ex- 
pectation. Lips  compressed.  Eyes  fixed.  Five 
minutes  gone. 


230  GALA-DAYS. 

"Bite?"  calls  Halicarnassus,  from  down  the 
river. 

"  Not  yet,"  hopefully. 

"  Lower  your  line  a  little.  I  '11  come  in  a 
minute."  Line  is  lowered.  Arms  begin  to  ache. 
Rod  suddenly  bobs  down.  Snatch  it  up.  Only 
an  old  stick.  Splash  it  off  contemptuously. 

"  Bite  ?  "  calls  Halicarnassus  from  afar. 

"  No,"  faintly  responds  Marius,  amid  the  ruins 
of  Carthage. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  by  and  by,"  suggests  Hali- 
carnassus-, encouragingly.  Five  minutes  more. 
Arms  breaking.  Knees  trembling.  Pebble  shaky. 
Brain  dizzy.  Everything  seems  to  be  sailing  down 
the  stream.  Tempted  to  give  up,  but  look  at  the 
empty  basket,  think  of  the  expectant  party  and  the 
eight  cod-fish,  and  possess  my  soul  in  patience. 

"  Bite  ?  "  comes  the  distant  voice  of  Halicar- 
nassus, disappearing  by  a  bend  in  the  river. 

"  No !  "  I  moan,  trying  to  stand  on  one  foot  to 
rest  the  other,  and  ending  by  standing  on  neither ; 
for  the  pebble  quivers,  convulses,  and  finally  rolls 
over  and  expires  ;  and  only  a  vigorous  leap  and  a 
sudden  conversion  of  the  fishing-rod  into  a  bal- 
ancing-pole save  me  from  an  ignominious  bath. 
Weary  of  the  world,  and  lost  to  shame,  I  gather 
all  my  remaining  strength,  wind  the  line  about  the 
rod,  poise  it  on  high,  hurl  it  out  into  the  deepest 
and  most  unobstructed  part  of  the  stream,  climb 
up  pugnis  et  calcibus  on  the  back  of  an  old  boulder ; 


GALA-DAYS.  -      231 

coax,  threaten,  cajole,  and  intimidate  my  wet  boots 
to  come  off;  dip  my  handkerchief  in  the  water, 
and  fold  it  on  my  head,  to  keep  from  being  sun- 
struck  ;  lie  down  on  the  rock,  pull  my  hat  over 
my  face,  and  dream,  to  the  purling  of  the  river, 
the  singing  of  the  birds,  and  the  music  of  the  wind 
in  the  trees,  (whether  in  the  body  I  cannot  tell, 
or  whether  out  of  the  body  I  cannot  tell,)  of 
another  river,  far,  far  away,  —  broad,  and  deep, 
and  seaward  rushing,  —  now  in  shadow,  now  in 
shine,  —  now  lashed  by  storm,  now  calm  as  a 
baby's  sleep,  —  bearing  on  its  vast  bosom  a  million 
crafts,  whereof  I  see  only  one,  —  a  little  pinnace, 
frail  yet  buoyant,  —  tossed  hither  and  thither,  yet 
always  keeping  her  prow  to  the  waves,  —  washed, 
but  not  whelmed.  So  small  and  slight  a  thing, 
will  she  not  be  borne  down  by  the  merchant-ships, 
the  ocean  steamers,  the  men-of-war,  that  ride  the 
waves,  reckless  in  their  pride  of  power?  How 
will  she  escape  the  sunken  rocks,  the  treacherous 
quicksands,  the  ravening  whirlpools,  the  black  and 
dark  night  ?  Lo !  yonder,  right  across  her  bows, 
comes  one  of  the  Sea-Kings,  freighted  with  death 
for  the  frail  little  bark !  Woe  !  woe  !  for  the  lithe 
little  bark !  Nay,  not  death,  but  life.  The  Sea- 
King  marks  the  path  of  the  pinnace.  Not  death, 
but  life.  Signals  flash  back  and  forth.  She  dis- 
cerns the  voice  of  the  Master.  He,  too,  is  steering 
seaward,  —  not  more  bravely,  not  more  truly,  but 
in  a  director  course.  He"  will  pilot  her  past  the 


232     •  GALA-DAYS. 

breakers  and  the  quicksands.  He  will  bring  her 
to  the  haven  where  she  would  be.  O  brave  little 
bark  !  Is  it  Love  that  watches  at  the  masthead  ? 
Is  it  Wisdom  that  stands  at  the  helm  ?  Is  it 
Strength  that  curves  the  swift  keel? 

"  Hullo  !   how  many  ?  " 

I  start  up  wildly,  and  knock  my  hat  off  into  the 
water.  Jump  after  it,  at  the  imminent  risk  of 
going  in  myself,  catch  it  by  one  of  the  strings,  and 
stare  at  Halicarnassus. 

"  Asleep,  I  fancy  ?  "  says  Halicarnassus,  inter- 
rogatively. 

"  Fancy,"  I  echo,  dreamily. 

"  How  many  fishes  ?  "  .persists  Halicarnassus. 

"  Fishes  ?  "  says  the  echo. 

"  Yes,  fishes,"  repeats  Halicarnassus,  in  a  louder 
tone. 

"  Yes,  it  must  have  been  the  fishes,"  murmurs 
the  echo. 

"  Goodness  gracious  me !  "  ejaculates  Halicar- 
nassus, with  the  voice  of  a  giant ;  "  how  many 
fishes  have  you  caught?" 

"  Oh  I  yes,"  waking  up  and  hastening  to  ap- 
pease his  wrath ;  "  eight,  —  chiefly  cod." 

Indignation  chokes  his  speech.  Meanwhile  I 
wake  up  still  further,  and,  instead  of  standing 
before  him  like  a  culprit,  beard  him  like  an 
avenging  Fury,  and  upbraid  him  with  his  decep- 
tion and  desertion.  He  attempts  to  defend  him- 
self, but  is  overpowered.  Conscious  guilt  dyes 


GALA-DAYS.  233 

his  face,  and  remorse  gnaws  at  the  roots  of  his 
tongue. 

"  Sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 

We  walk  silently  towards  the  woods.  We  meet 
a  small  boy  with  a  tin  pan  and  thirty-six  fishes  in 
it.  We  accost  him. 

"  Are  these  fishes  for  sale  ?  "  asks  Halicarnassus. 

"  Bet  they  be !  "  says  small  boy,  with  energy. 

Halicarnassus  looks  meaningly  at  me.  I  look 
meaningly  at  Halicarnassus,  and  both  look  mean- 
ingly at  our  empty  basket. 

"  Won't  you  tell  ?  "  says  Halicarnassus. 

"  No ;  won't  you  ?  "  Halicarnassus  whistles,  the 
fishes  are  transferred  from  pan  to  basket,  and  we 
walk  away  as  "  chirp  as  a  cricket,"  reach  the  syl- 
van party,  and  are  speedily  surrounded. 

"  O  what  beauties !  Who  caught  them  ?  How 
many  are  there  ?  " 

"  Thirty-six,"  says  Halicarnassus,  in  a  lordly, 
thoroughbred  way.  "  I  caught  'em." 

"  In  a  tin  pan,"  I  exclaim,  disgusted  with  his 
self-conceit,  and  determined  to  "  take  him  down." 

A  cry  of  rage  from  Halicarnassus,  a  shout  of 
derision  from  the  party. 

"  And  how  many  did  you  catch,  pray  ? "  de- 
mands he. 

"  Eight,  —  all  cods,"  I  answer,  placidly. 

Tolerably  satisfied  with  our  aquatic  experience, 
•we  determined  to  resume  the  mountains,  but  in  a 
milder  form ;  before  which,  however,  it  became 


234  GALA-DA  YS. 

necessary  to  do  a  little  shopping.  An  individual 
—  one  of  the  party,  whose  name  I  will  not  di- 
vulge, and  whose  identity  you  never  can  conjec- 
ture, so  it  is  n't  worth  while  to  exhaust  yourself 
with  guessing  —  found  one  day,  while  she  was  in 
the  country,  that  she  had  walked  a  hole  through 
the  bottom  of  her  boots.  How  she  discovered  this 
fact  is  of  no  moment ;  but,  upon  investigating  the 
subject,  she  ascertained  that  it  could  scarcely  be 
said  with  propriety  that  there  was  a  hole  in  her 
boots,  but,  to  use  a- term  which  savors  of  the  street, 
though  I  employ  it  literally,  there  was  n't  anything 
else.  Now  the  fact  of  itself  is  not  worthy  of  re- 
mark. That  th^  integrity  of  a  pair  of  boots  should 
yield  to  the  continued  solicitations  of  time,  toil, 
•bone,  and  muscle,  is  too  nearly  a  matter  of  every- 
day occurrence  to  excite  alarm.  The  "  irrepressi- 
ble conflict  "  between  leather  and  land  has,  so  far 
as  I  know,  been  suspended  but  once  since 

"  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span," 

and  that  was  only  an  amnesty  of  forty  years  while 
the  Israelites  were  wandering  in  the  wilderness. 
But  when  you  are  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  coun- 
try, scouring  woods,  climbing  mountains,  and  ford- 
ing rivers,  having  with  your  usual  improvidence 
neglected  to  furnish  yourself  with  stout  boots,  then 
a  "  horrid  chasm,"  or  series  of  chasms,  yawning 
in  the  only  pair  that  are  of  any  use  to  you,  pre- 
sents a  spectacle  which  no  reflective  mind  can 
contemplate  without  dismay. 


GALA-DAYS.  235 

It  was,  in  fact,  with  a  good  deal  of  dismay  that 
the  individual  in  question  sat  down,  one  morning, 
on  "Webster's  Unabridged," — that  being  the  only- 
available  seat  in  an  apartment  not  over-capacious, 
—  and  went  into  a  committee  of  the  whole  on  the 
state  of  her  boots.  The  prospect  was  not  inviting. 
Heels  frightfully  wrenched  and  askew,  and  show- 
ing indubitable  symptoms  of  a  precipitate  seces- 
sion ;  binding  frayed,  ravelled,  evidently  stub- 
-born  in  resistance,  but  at  length  overpowered 
and  rent  into  innumerable  fissures ;  buttons  dis- 
located, dragged  up  by  the  roots,  yet  clinging  to  a 
forlorn  hope  with  a  courage  and  constancy  worthy 
of  a  better  cause  ;  upper-leather  (glove-kid),  once 
black,  now  "  the  ashen  hue  of  age,"  gray,  purple, 
flayed,  scratched,  and  generally  lacerated ;  soles, 
ah !  the  soles !  There  the  process  of  disintegra- 
tion culminated.  Curled,  crisped,  jagged,  gaping, 
stratified,  laminated,  torn  by  internal  convulsions, 
upheaved  by  external  forces,  they  might  have  be- 
longed to  some  pre-Adamic  era,  and  certainly 
presented  a  series  of  dissolving  views,  deeply  in- 
teresting, but  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  highly- 
entertaining. 

After  arranging  these  boots  in  every  possible 
combination, — side  by  side,  heel  to  heel,  toe  to 
toe,  —  and  finding  that  the  result-  of  each  and 
every  combination  was  that 

"  No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible, 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe," 


236  .  GALA-DAYS. 

the  Individual  at  length,  with  a  sigh,  placed  them, 
keel  upwards,  on  the  floor  in  front  of  her,  and, 
resting  her  head  in  her  hands,  gazed  at  them  with 
such  a  fixedness  and  rigidity  that  she  might  have 
been  taken  for  an  old  Ouate,  absorbed  in  the  exer- 
cise of  his  legitimate  calling.  (The  old  Druidical 
order  were  divided  into  three  classes,  Druids, 
Bards,  and  Ouates.  The  Druids  philosophized 
and  theologized,  the  Bards  harped  and  sang,  and 
the  Ouates  divined  and  contemplated  the  nature- 
of  things.  I  thought  I  would  tell  you,  as  you 
might  not  know.  I  execrate  the  self-conceited 
way  some  people  have  of  tossing  off  their  erudite 
items  and  allusions  in  a  careless,  familiar  style,  as 
if  it  is  such  A  B  C  to  them  that  they  don't  for  a 
moment  think  of  any  one's  not  understanding  it. 
Worse  still  is  it  to  have  some  jagged  brickbat,  dug 
up  from  a  heap  of  Patagonian  rubbish,  flung  at  you 
with  a  "  we  have  all  heard  of"  ;  or  to  be  turned 
off,  just  as  your  ears  are  wide  open  to  listen  to  an 

old  pre-Thautic  myth,  with  "the  story  of is 

too  familiar  to  need  repetition."  You  have  not 
the  most  distant  conception  what  the  story  is,  yet 
you  don't  like  to  say  so,  because  it  seems  to  be  in- 
timated that  every  intelligent  person  ought  to 
know  it ;  so  you  hold  your  peace.  My  dear, 
don't  do  it.  Don't  hold  your  peace.  Don't  let 
yourself  be  put  down  in  that  way.  Don't  be  de- 
ceived. Half  the  time  these  people  never  knew  it 
themselves,  I  dare  say,  more  than  a  week  before- 


GALA-DA  YS.  237 

hand,  and  have  been  puzzling  their  brains  ever 
since  for  a  chance  to  get  it  in.) 

The  Individual  came  at  length  to  the  conclusion 
that  something  must  be  done.  Masterly  inactiv- 
ity must  give  way  to  the  exigencies  of  the  case. 
She  had  recourse  to  the  "  oldest  inhabitant."  A 
series  of  questions  disclosed  the  important  fact 
that  — 

u  Well,  there  was  a  store  at  Sonose,  about 
fourteen  miles  away ;  and  Mr.  Williams,  he  kept 
candy,  and  slate-pencils,  and  sich  —  " 

"  Do  you.  suppose  he  keeps  good  thick  boots  ?  " 

"  O  la  !  no." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  keeps  any  kind  of  boots  ? 
You  see  I  have  worn  mine  out,  and  what  am  I 
to  do?" 

"  Well,  now,  I  thinks  likely  you  can  get  'em 
mended." 

Individual  brightens  up.     "  O,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  's  Mr.  Jacobs,  lives  right  out  there, 
under  the  hill ;  he  makes  men's  boots.  I  do' 
know  as  he  could  do  yours,  but  you  might  try. 
Thinks  likely  he  ain't  got  the  tools,  nor  the  stuff 
to  do  that  sort  of  work  with." 

I  did  n't  care  for  the  tools  or  the  stuff.  All  I 
wanted  was  the  shoemaker ;  if  I  could  find  7«m, 
'I  had  little  doubt  that  all  the  rest  would  follow 
naturally  from  the  premises.  So  I  arranged  my 
"  sandal  shoon  and  scallop-shell,"  and  departed  on 
my  pilgrimage.  The  way  had  been  carefully 


238  GALA-DAYS. 

pointed  out  to  me,  but  I  never  can  remember  such 
things  more  than  one  turn,  or  street,  ahead ;  so  I 
made  a  point  of  inquiring  of  every  one  I  met, 
where  Mr.  Jacobs  lived.  Every  one,  by  the 
way,  consisted  of  a  little  girl  with  a  basket  of 
potatoes,  and  a  man  carrying  the  United  States 
mail  on  his  arm. 

At  length  the  Individual  found  the  house  as 
directed,  and  found  also  that  it  was  no  house,  but 
a  barn,  and  the  shoemaker's  shop  was  up-stairs, 
and  the  stairs  were  on  the  outside.  If  they  were 
firm  and  strong,  their  looks  were  against  them. 
Neither  step  nor  balustrade  invited  confidence. 
The  Individual  stood  on  the  lower  one  in  a  medi- 
tative mood  for  a  while,  and  then  gave  a  jump 
by  way  of  test,  thinking  it  best  to  go  through  the 
one  nearest  the  ground,  if  she  must  go  through 
any.  An  ominous  creaking  and  swaying  and  crack- 
ing followed,  but  no  actual  rupture.  The  second 
step  was  tested  with  the  same  result ;  then  the 
third  and  fourth ;  and,  reflecting  that  appearances 
are  deceitful,  and  recollecting  the  rocking-stpne 
at  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  and  the  tower  of 
Pisa,  &c.,  the  Individual  shook  off  her  fears,  and 
ascended  rapidly.  Being  somewhat  unfamiliar 
with  the  etiquette  of  shoemaker's  shops,  she  hesi- 
tated whether  to  knock  or  plunge  at  once  into  the" 
middle  of  things,  but  decided  to  err  on  the  safe 
side,  and  gave  a  very  moderate  and  conservative 
rap.  Silence.  A  louder  knock.  The  door  rattled. 


GALA-DAYS.  239 

Louder  still.  The  whole  building  shook.  Knuc- 
kles filed  a  caveat.  Applied  the  heel  of  the  dilapi- 
dated boot  in  her  hand.  Suffocated  with  a  cloud  of 
dust  thence  ensuing.  Contemplated  the  nature  of 
things  for  a  while.  Heard  a  voice.  A  man  called 
from  a  neighboring  turnip-field,  "  Arter  Jake  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  —  if  he  is  a  shoemaker"  (to  make 
sure  of  identity). 

"  Yes,  well,  he  ain't  to  home." 

"  Oh." 

"  He  's  gone  to  Sonose." 

"  When  will  he  be  back,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"  Wall,  I  can't  say  for  sartain.  Next  week  or 
week  after,  —  leastwise  'fore  the  fair.  Got  a  job?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  can't  very  well  wait  so  long. 
Do  you  know  of  any  shoemakers  anywhere 
about?" 

"  Wall,  ma'am,  I  do'  know  as  I  do.  Folks  is 
mostly  farmers  here.  There  's  Fuller,  just  moved, 
though.  Come  up  from  Exton  yesterday.  P'r'aps 
he  '11  give  you  a  lift.  That 's  his  house  right  down 
there.  'T  aint  more  'n  half  a  mile." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  see  it.     Thank  you." 

Individual  descends  from  her  precarious  eleva- 
tion, and  marches  to  the  attack  of  Fuller.  A 
fresh-faced,  good-natured-looking  man  is  just  com- 
ing out  at  the  gate.  His  pleasant  countenance 
captivates  her  at  once,  and,  with  a  silent  but 
intense  hope  that  he  may  be  the  shoemaker,  she 
asks  if  "  Mr.  Fuller  lives  here." 


240  GALA-DAYS. 

"  Well,"  replies  the  man,  in  an  easy,  drawling 
tone,  that  harmonizes  admirably  with  his  face, 
"  when  a  fellow  is  moving,  he  can't  be  said  to  live 
anywhere.  I  guess  he  '11  live  here,  though,  as 
soon  as  the  stove  gets  up." 

I  reciprocated  his  frankness  with  an  engaging 
smile,  and  asked,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  Do  you 
suppose  he  would  mend  a  shoe  for  me  ?  " 

I  thought  I  would  begin  with  a  shoe,  and,  if  I 
found  him  acquiescent,  I  would  mount  gradually 
to  a  boot,  then  to  a  pair.  But  my  little  subterfuge 
was  water  spilled  on  the  ground. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he  would  or  not,  but  I 
know  one  thing." 

"Well?" 

"  Could  n't  if  he  wanted  to.  Ain't  got  his  tools 
here.  They  ain't  come  up  yet." 

"  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  " 


"  Yes  ;  because,  if  you  know  how,  I  should  n't 
think  it  would  make  so  much  difference  about  the 
tools.  Could  n't  you  borrow  a  gimlet  or  some- 
thing from  the  neighbors  ?  " 

"  A  GIMLET  ?  " 

"  Yes,  or  whatever  you  want,  to  make  shoes 
with." 

"  An  awl,  you  mean." 

"  Well,  yes,  an  awl.  Could  n't  you  borrow  an 
awl?" 

"  Nary  awl." 


GALA-DAYS.  241 

"  When  will  your  tools  come  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know;  you  see  I  don't  hurry 
'em  up,  because  it 's  haying,  and  I  and  my  men, 
we  'd  just  as  lieves  work  out  of  doors  a  part  of  the 
time  as  not.  We  don't  mend  shoes  much.  We 
make  'em  mostly." 

"  Oh  !  that 's  better  still ;  would  you  make  me 
a  pair  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  don't  do  that  kind  of  work.  We 
work  for  the  dealers.  We  make  the  shoes  that 
they  send  down  South  for  the  niggers.  We  ain't 
got  the  lasts  that  would  do  for  you." 

Individual  goes  home,  as  Chaucer  says,  "in 
doleful  dumps,"  and  determines  to  take  the  boots 
under  her  own  supervision.  First,  she  inks  over 
all  the  gray  parts.  Then  she  takes  some  sealing- 
wax,  and  sticks  down  all  the  bits  of  cuticle  torn 
up.  Then,  in  lieu  of  anything  better,  she  takes 
some  white  flannel-silk,  —  not  embroidery-silk,  you 
understand,  but  flannel-silk,  harder  twisted  and 
stronger,  such  as  is  to  be  found,  so  far  as  I  have 
tried,  only  in  Boston,  —  and  therewith  endeavors  to 
sew  down  the  curled  sole  to  its  appropriate  sphere, 
or  rather  plane.  It  is  not  the  easiest  or  the 
most  agreeable  work  in  the  world.  How  peo- 
ple manage  to  make  shoes  I  cannot  divine,  for  of 
all  awkward  things  to  get  hold  of,  and  to  handle 
and  manage  after  you  have  hold,  I  think  a  shoe 
is  the  worst.  The  place  where  you  put  a  needle 
in  does  not  seem  to  hold  the  most  distant  relation 
11  p 


242  GALA-DA  YS. 

to  the  place  where  it  comes  out.  You  set  it  where 
you  wish  it  to  go,  and  then  proceed  vi  et  armis  ei 
thimble,  but  it  resists  your  armed  intervention. 
Then  you  rest  the  head  of  the  needle  against  the 
window-sill,  and  push.  You  feel  something  move. 
Everything  is  going  on  and  in  delightfully.  Mind 
asserts  its  control  over  matter.  You  pause  to  ex- 
amine. In  ?  Yes,  head  deep  in  the  pine-wood,  but 
the  point  not  an  inch  further  in  the  shoe.  You 
pull  out.  The  shoe  comes  off  the  needle,  but  the 
needle  does  not  come  out  of  the  window-sill.  You 
pull  the  silk,  and  break  it,  and  then  work  the  nee- 
dle out  as  well  as  you  can,  and  then  begin  again, 

—  destroying  three  needles,  getting  your  fingers 
"  exquisitely  pricked,"  and  keeping  your  temper 

—  if  you  can. 

By  some  such  process  did  the  Individual,  a  pas- 
sage of  whose  biography  I  am  now  giving  you, 
endeavor  to  repair  the  ravages  of  time  and  toil. 
In  so  far  as  she  succeeded  in  making  the  crooked 
places  straight  and  the  rough  places  plain,  her 
efforts  may  be  said  to  have  been  crowned  with 
success.  It  is  but  fair  to  add,  however,  that  the 
result  did  not  inspire  her  with  so  much  confidence 
but  that  she  determined  to  lay  by  the  boots  for  a 
while,  reserving  them  for  such  times  as  they 
should  be  most  needed,  with  a  vague  hope  also 
that  rest  might  exercise  some  wonderful  recupera- 
tive power. 

About   five   days    after    this,    they   were   again 


GALA-DA  YS.  243 

brought  out,  to  do  duty  on  a  long  walk.  The 
event  was  most  mournful.  The  flannel-silk  gave 
way  at  the  first  fire.  The  soles  rolled  themselves 
up  again  in  a  most  uncomfortable  manner.  At 
every  step,  the  foot  had  to  be  put  forward,  placed 
lightly  on  the  ground,  and  then  drawn  back. 
The  walk  was  an  agony.  It  so  happened  that  on 
our  return,  without  any  intention,  we  came  out  of 
the  woods  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  shoe- 
maker's aforesaid,  and  the  Individual  was  quite 
sure  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  hammer.  She 
remembered  that,  when  she  was  young  and  at 
school,  she  was  familiar  with  a  certain  "  ward- 
robe," which  was  generally  so  bulging-full  of 
clothes,  that  the  doors  could  not,  by  any  fair, 
straightforward  means,  be  shut ;  but  if  you  sprang 
upon  them  suddenly,  taking  them  unawares,  as  it 
Avere,  and  when  they  were  off  their  guard,  you 
could  sometimes  effect  a  closure.  She  determined 
to  try  this  plan  on  the  shoemaker.  So  she  bade 
the  rest  of  the  party  go  on,  while  she  turned  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  hammering.  She  went 
straight  into  the  shop,  without  knocking,  the  door 
being  ajar.  There  he  was  at  it,  sure  enough. 

"  Your  tools  have  come  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with 
ill-concealed  exultation.  "  Now,  will  you  mend 
my  shoes?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  can,  hardly.  I  'm 
pretty  much  in  a  hurry.  What  with  moving  and 
haying,  I  've  got  a  little  behindhand." 


244  GALA-DA  YS. 

"  Oh !  but  you  must  mend  them,  because  I  am 
going  up  on  the  mountain  to-morrow,  and  I  have 
no  others  to  wear,  and  I  am  afraid  of  the  snakes  ; 
so  you  see,  you  must." 

"  Got  'em  here  ?  " 

Individual  furtively  works  off  the  best  one,  and 
picks  it  up,  —  while  his  eyes  are  bent  on  his  work, 
—  as  if  she  had  only  dropped  it,  and  hands  it  to 
him.  He  takes  it,  turns  it  over,  pulls  it,  knocks 
it,  with  an  evident  intention  of  understanding  the 
subject  thoroughly. 

"  Rather  a  haggard-looking  boot,"  he  remarks, 
after  his  close  survey. 

"Yes,  but  — " 

"  Other  a'n't  so  bad,  I  suppose?" 

"  Well  —  I  —  don't  know  —  that  is  —  " 

"  Both  bad  enough." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  with  an  uneasy  laugh. 

"  Let 's  see  the  other  one."  The  other  one  is 
produced,  and  examined  in  silence. 

"  Are  you  going  to  wear  them  boots  up  the 
mountain  ? "  with  a  tone  that  said  very  plainly, 
"  Of  course  you  're  not." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  was  going  to  wear  them.  Don't 
you  think  they  will  do  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  trust  my  feet  in  'em." 

"  O — h  !  Are  there  snakes  ?  Do  you  think 
snakes  could  bite  through  them  ?  " 

A  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  little,  low,  plaintive 
whistle,,  is  the  only  reply,  but  they  speak  in  thun- 


GALA-DA  YS.  245 

der  tones  of  boa-constrictors,  anacondas,  and  cobra 
di  capellos. 

"  They  were  very  good  and  stout  when  I  had 
them.  I  called  them  very  stout  shoes." 

"  O  yes,  they  're  made  of  good  material,  but 
you  see  they  're  worn  out.  I  don't  believe  I  could 
mend  them  worth  while.  The  stitches  would  tear 
right  out." 

"But  couldn't  you,  somehow,  glue  on  a  pair 
of  soles  ?  any  way  to  make  them  stick.  I  '11  pay 
you  anything,  if  you  '11  only  make  them  last  till  I 
go  home,  or  even  till  I  get  down  the  mountain. 
Now,  I  am  sure  you  can  do  it,  if  you  will  only 
think  so.  Don't  you  know  Kossuth  says,  '  Noth- 
ing is  difficult  to  him  who  wills  '  ?  " 

He  was  evidently  moved  by  the  earnestness  of 
the  appeal.  "  I  suppose  they  'd  be  worth  more  to 
you  now  than  half  a  dozen  pair  when  you  get 
home." 

"Worth!  why,  they  would  be  of  inestimable 
value.  Think  of  the  snakes !  I  don't  care  how 
you  do  them,  nor  how  you  make  them  look. 
If  you  will  only  glue  on,  or  sew  on,  or  nail  on,  or 
rivet  on,  something  that  is  thick  and  will  stick,  I 
will  pay  you,  and  be  grateful  to  you  through  the 
remainder  of  my  natural  life." 

"Well,  —  you  leave  'em,  and  come  over  again 
this  afternoon,  and  if  I  can  do  anything,  I  '11  do  it 
•by  that  time." 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  "  ;  and  I 


246  GALA-DAYS. 

went  away  in  high  spirits,  just  putting  my  head 
back  through  the  door  to  say,  "  Now  you  perse- 
vere, and  I  am  sure  you  will  succeed." 

I  was  as  happy  as  a  queen.  To  be  sure,  I 
had  to  walk  home  without  any  shoes ;  but  the 
grass  was  as  soft  as  velvet,  and  the  dust  as  clean 
as  sand,  and  it  did  not  hurt  me  in  the  least.  To 
be  sure,  he  had  not  promised  to  mend  them ;  but 
I  had  faith  in  him,  and  how  did  it  turn  out? 
Verily,  I  should  not  have  known  the  boots,  if  I 
had  seen  only  the  soles.  They  werfe  clipped,  and 
shaved,  and  underpinned,  and  smoothed,  and  looked 
as  if  they  had  taken  out  "  a  new  lease  of  life." 

"  I  don't  suppose  they  will  last  you  as  long  as  I 
have  been  doing  them,"  he  remarked,  with  unpro- 
fessional frankness.  I  did  not  believe  him,  and  in- 
deed his  prophecy  was  not  true,  for  they  are  in 
existence  yet,  and  I  never  disposed  of  "  a  quarter  " 
in  my  life  with  more  satisfaction  than  I  dropped  it 
that  day  into  his  benevolent  hand. 

A  thousand  years  hence,  when  New  Hampshire 
shall  have  become  as  populous  as  Babylon,  this 
sketch  may  become  the  foundation  of  some  "  Tale 
of  Beowulf "  or  other.  At  any  rate  here  it  is 
ready. 

Of  all  the  White  Mountains,  the  one  of  which 
you  hear  least  said  is  Agamenticus,  and  perhaps 
justly,  for  it  is  not  one  of  the  White  Mountains, 
but  an  isolated  peak  by  itself.  My  information 


GALA-DAYS.  247 

concerning  it  is  founded  partly  on  observation, 
partly  on  testimony,  and  partly  on  memory,  sup- 
ported where  she  is  weak  by  conjecture.  These 
three  sources,  however,  mingle  their  waters  to- 
gether somewhat  too  intricately  for  accurate  analy- 
sis, and  I  shall,  therefore,  waive  distinctions,  and 
plant  myself  on  the  broad  basis  of  assertion, 
warning  the  future  historian  and  antiquary  not 
to  take  this  paper  as  conclusive  without  extra- 
neous props. 

Agamenticus  is  a  huge  rock  rising  abruptly  from 
a  level  country  along  New  Hampshire's  half-yard 
of  sea-shore.  As  it  is  the  only  large  rock  on  the 
eastern  coast  of  the  United  States,  it  is  an  invalua- 
ble beacon  to  mariners.  The  first  city  ever  built 
on  the  American  continent  was  laid  out  at  its  base, 
and  the  remains  are  now  visible  from  its  summit ; 
but,  as  funds  failed,  and  the  founders  were  killed 
by  the  Indians,  it  was  never  completed,  in  fact 
was  never  begun,  only  laid  out.  To  the  east  I 
was  certain  I  saw  Boar's  Head  and  a  steamer 
steaming  towards  it,  till  I  was  assured  that  in 
such  case  the  steamer  must  have  been  steaming 
over*  the  corn-fields,  because,  unlike  JEnon  near 
to  Salim,  there  was  no  water  there.  So  I  suppose 
it  must  have  been 

"  A  painted  ship  upon  a  painted  ocean." 

The  ascent  to  Agamenticus  is  sidling  and  un- 
certain so  long  as  you  hug  your  carriage  ;  but, 


248  GALA-DA  YS. 

leaving  that,  and  confiding  yourself  to  Mother 
Earth,  you  gather  both  strength  and  equipoise 
from  the  touch,  and,  with  a  little  boy  to  guide 
you  through  the  woods  and  over  the  rocks,  you 
will  find  the  ascent  quite  pleasant  and  safe,  if 
you  are  careful  not  to  slip  down,  which  you  will 
be  sure  to  do  on  your  descent,  whether  you  are 
careful  or  not.  At  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
is  a  fine  and  flourishing  growth  of  muskmelons, 
sugar,  and  currant-wine.  At  least  we  found  them 
there  in  profusion. 

Agamenticus  has  its  legend.  Many  years  ago, 
the  Indians,  to "  avert  the  plague,  drove  twenty 
thousand  cattle  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and 
there  sacrificed  them  to  the  Great  Spirit.  We 
could  still  discern  traces  of  the  sacrifice,  —  burnt 
stones,  bits  of  green-black  glass,  and  charred  pine 
branches.  Then  we  came  home. 

Perth es  says,  "  That  part  of  a  journey  which  re- 
mains after  the  travelling  is  the  journey."  What 
remains  of  my  journey,  for  me,  for  you?  Will 
any  live  over  again  a  pleasant  past  and  look  more 
cheerily  into  a  lowering  future  for  these  wayward 
words  of  mine?  Are  there  clouded  lives  that  will 
find  a  little  sunshine ;  pent-up  souls  that  will  catch 
a  breath  of  blooms  in  my  rambling  record  ?  Are 
there  lips  that  will  relax  their  tightness  ;  eyes  that 
will  lose  for  a  moment  the  shadow  of  remembered 
pain  ?  Then,  indeed,  the  best  part  of  my  journey 
is  yet  to  come. 


A  CALL 
TO  MY  COUNTRYWOMEN. 


11* 


CALL  TO  MY  COUNTRYWOMEN. 


N  the  newspapers  and  magazines  you 
shall  see  many  poems  and  papers  — 
written  by  women  who  meekly  term 
themselves  weak,  and  modestly  profess 
to  represent  only  the  weak  among  their  sex  — 
discussing  the  duties  which  the  weak  owe  to  their 
country  in  days  like  these.  The  invariable  con- 
clusion is,  that,  though  they  cannot  fight,  because 
they  are  not  men,  —  or  go  down  to  nurse  the  sick 
and  wounded,  because  they  have  children  to  take 
care  of,  —  or  write  effectively,  because  they  do 
not  know  how,  —  or  do  any  great  and  heroic 
thing,  because  they  have  not  the  ability,  —  they 
can  pray ;  and  they  generally  do  close  with  a 
melodious  and  beautiful  prayer.  Now  praying  is 
a  good  thing.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  very  best  thing 
in  the  world  to  do,  and  there  is  no  danger  of  our 
having  too  much  of  it ;  but  if  women,  weak  or 
strong,  consider  that  praying  is  all  they  can  or 
ought  to  do  for  their  country,  and  so  settle  down 


252  A    CALL   TO 

contented  with  that,  they  make  as  great  a  mistake 
as  if  they  did  not  pray  at  all.  True,  women  can- 
not fight,  and  there  is  no  call  for  any  great  number 
of  female  nurses  ;  notwithstanding  this,  the  issue 
of  this  war  depends  quite  as  much  upon  American 
women  as  upon  American  men,  —  and  depends, 
too,  not  upon  the  few  who  write,  but  upon  the 
many  who  do  not.  The  women  of  the  Revolu- 
tion were  not  only  Mrs.  Adams,  Mrs.  Reed,  and 
Mrs.  Schuyler,  but  the  wives  of  the  farmers  and 
shoemakers  and  blacksmiths  everywhere.  It  is  not 
Mrs.  Stowe,  or  Mrs.  Howe,  or  Miss  Stevenson,  or 
Miss  Dix,  alone,  who  is  to  save  the  country,  but 
the  thousands  upon  thousands  who  are  at  this  mo- 
ment darning  stockings,  tending  babies,  sweeping 
floors.  It  is  to  them  I  speak.  It  is  they  whom 
I  wish  to  get  hold  of;  for  in  their  hands  lies 
slumbering  the  future  of  this  nation. 

Shall  I  say  that  the  women  of  to-day  have  not 
come  up  to  the  level  of  to-day,  —  that  they  do  not 
stand  abreast  with  its  issues,  —  they  do  not  rise  to 
the  height  of  its  great  argument  ?  I  do  not  forget 
what  you  have  done.  I  have  beheld,  O  Dorcases, 
with  admiration  and  gratitude,  the  coats  and  gar- 
ments, the  lint  and  bandages,  which  you  have 
made.  If  you  could  have  finished  the  war  with 
your  needles,  it  would  have  been  finished  long  ago ; 
but  stitching  does  not  crush  rebellion,  does  not  an- 
nihilate treason,  or  hew  traitors  in  pieces  before  the 
Lord.  Excellent  as  far  as  it  goes,  it  stops  fearfully 


MY  COUNTRYWOMEN.  253 

short  of  the  goal.  This  ought  ye  to  do,  but  there 
are  other  things  which  you  ought  not  to  leave 
undone.  The  war  cannot  be  finished  by  sheets 
and  pillow-cases.  Sometimes  I  am  tempted  to 
believe  that  it  cannot  be  finished  till  we  have 
flung  them  all  away.  When  I  read  of  the  rebels 
fighting  bare-headed,  bare-footed,  haggard,  and 
unshorn,  in  rags  and  filth,  —  fighting  bravely,  he- 
roically, successfully,  —  I  am  ready  to  make  a 
burnt-offering  of  our  stacks  of  clothing.  I  feel 
and  fear  that  we  must  come  down,  as  they  have 
done,  to  a  recklessness  of  all  incidentals,  down  to 
the  rough  and  rugged  fastnesses  of  life,  down  to 
the  very  gates  of  death  itself,  before  we  shall  be 
ready  and  worthy  to  win  victories.  Yet  it  is  not 
so,  for  the  hardest  fights  the  earth  has  ever  known 
have  been  made  by  the  delicate-handed  and  purple- 
robed.  So,  in  the  ultimate  analysis,  it  is  neither 
gold-lace  nor  rags  that  overpower  obstacles,  but 
the  fiery  soul  that  consumes  both  in  the  intensity 
of  its  furnace-heat,  bending  impossibilities  to  the 
ends  of  its  passionate  purpose. 

This  soul  of  fire  is  what  I  wish  to  see  kindled 
in  our  women,  —  burning  white  and  strong  and 
steady,  through  all  weakness,  timidity,  vacillation, 
treachery  in  church  or  state  or  press  or  parlor, 
scorching,  blasting,  annihilating  whatsoever  loveth 
and  maketh  a  lie,  —  extinguished  by  no  tempest 
of  defeat,  no  drizzle  of  delay,  but  glowing  on  its 
steadfast  path  till  it  shall  have  cleared  through  the 


254  A    CALL   TO 

abomination  of  our  desolation  a  highway  for  the 
Prince  of  Peace. 

O  my  countrywomen,  I  long  to  see  you  stand 
under  the  time  and  bear  it  up  in  your  strong 
hearts,  and  not  need  to  be  borne  up  through  it. 
I  wish  you  to  stimulate,  and  not  crave  stimulants 
from  others.  I  wish  you  to  be  the  consolers,  the 
encouragers,  the  sustainers,  and  not  tremble  in 
perpetual  need  of  consolation  and  encouragement. 
When  men's  brains  are  knotted  and  their  brows 
corrugated  with  fearful  looking  for  and  hearing 
of  financial  crises,  military  disasters,  and  any  and 
every  form  of  national  calamity  consequent  upon 
the  war,  come  you  out  to  meet  them,  serene  and 
smiling  and  unafraid.  And  let  your  smile  be  no 
formal  distortion  of  your  lips,  but  a  bright  ray 
from  the  sunshine  in  your  heart.  Take  not  ac- 
quiescently, but  joyfully,  the  spoiling  of  your 
goods.  Not  only  look  poverty  in  the  face  with 
high  disdain,  but  embrace  it  with  gladness  and 
welcome.  The  loss  is  but  for  a  moment ;  the 
gain  is  for  all  time.  Go  further  than  this.  Con- 
secrate to  a  holy  cause  not  only  the  incidentals  of 
life,  but  life  itself.  Father,  husband,  child,  —  I  do 
not  say,  Give  them  up  to  toil,  exposure,  suffering, 
death,  without  a  murmur;  —  that  implies  reluc- 
tance. I  rather  say,  Urge  them  to  the  offering ; 
fill  them  with  sacred  fury  ;  fire  them  with  irre- 
sistible desire  ;  strengthen  them  to  heroic  will. 
Look  not  on  details,  the  present,  the  trivial,  the 


MY  COUNTRYWOMEN.  255 

fleeting  aspects  of  our  conflict,  but  fix  your  ardent 
gaze  on  its  eternal  side.  Be  not  resigned,  but 
rejoicing.  Be  spontaneous  and  exultant.  Be  large 
and  lofty.  Count  it  all  joy  that  you  are  reckoned 
worthy  to  suffer  in  a  grand  and  righteous  cause. 
Give  thanks  evermore  that  you  were  born  in  this 
time  ;  and  because  it  is  dark,  be  you  the  light  of 
the  world. 

And  follow  the  soldier  to  the  battle-field  with 
your  spirit.  The  great  army  of  letters  that  marches 
southward  with  every  morning  sun  is  a  powerful 
engine  of  war.  Fill  them  with  tears  and  sighs, 
lament  separation  and  suffering,  dwell  on  your 
loneliness  and  fears,  mourn  over  the  dishonesty 
of  contractors  and  the  incompetency  of  leaders, 
doubt  if  the  South  will  ever  be  conquered,  and 
foresee  financial  ruin,  and  you  will  damp  the 
powder  and  .lull  the  swords  that  ought  to  deal 
death  upon  the  foe.  Write  as  tenderly  as  you 
will.  In  camp,  the  roughest  man  idealizes  his  far- 
off  home,  and  every  word  of  love  uplifts  him  to  a 
lover.  But  let  your  tenderness  unfold  its  sunny 
side,  and  keep  the  shadows  for  His  pity  who  knows 
the  end  from  the  beginning,  and  whom  no  fore- 
boding can  dishearten.  Glory  in  your  tribulation. 
Show  your  soldier  that  his  unflinching  courage,  his 
undying  fortitude,  are  your  crown  of  rejoicing. 
Incite  him  to  enthusiasm  by  your  inspiration. 
Make  a  mock  of  your  discomforts.  Be  unweary- 
ing in  details  of  the  little  interests  of  home.  Fill 


256  A    CALL   TO 

your  letters  with  kittens  and  canaries,  with  baby's 
shoes,  and  Johnny's  sled,  and  the  old  cloak  which 
you  have  turned  into  a  handsome  gown.  Keep 
him  posted  in  all  the  village-gossip,  the  lectures, 
the  courtings,  the  sleigh-rides,  and  the  singing- 
schools.  Bring  out  the  good  points  of  the  world 
in  strong  relief.  Tell  every  piquant  and  pleasant 
and  funny  story  you  can  think  of.  Show  him 
that  you  clearly  apprehend  that  all  this  warfare 
means  peace,  and  that  a  dastardly  peace  would 
pave  the  way  for  speedy,  incessant,  and  more  ap- 
palling warfare.  Help  him  to  bear  his  burdens 
by  showing  him  how  elastic  you  are  under  yours. 
Hearten  him,  enliven  him,  tone  him  up  to  the  true 
hero-pitch.  Hush  your  plaintive  Miserere,  accept 
the  nation's  pain  for  penance,  and  commission 
every  Northern  breeze  to  bear  a  Te  Deum  lau- 
damus. 

It  fell  to  me  once  to  read  the  record  of  a  young 
life  laid  early  on  our  country's  altar.  I  saw  noble 
words  traced  by  the  still  hand,  —  words  of  duty 
and  honor  and  love  and  trust  that  thrilled  my 
heart  and  brought  back  once  more  the  virtue  of 
the  Golden  Age,  —  nay,  rather  revealed  the  virgin 
gold  of  this ;  but  through  all  his  letters  and  his 
life  shone,  half  concealed,  yet  wholly  revealed,  a 
silver  thread  of  light,  woven  in  by  a  woman's 
hand.  Rest  and  courage  and  hope,  patience  in 
the  weariness  of  disease,  strength  that  nerved  his 
arm  for  shock  and  onset,  and  for  the  last  grand 


MY  COUNTRYWOMEN.  257 

charge  that  laid  his  young  head  low,  —  all  flowed 
in  upon  him  through  the  tones  of  one  brave, 
sweet  voice  far  off.  A  gentle,  fragile,  soft-eyed 
woman,  what  could  such  a  delicate  flower  do 
against  the  "thunder-storm  of  battle"?  What 
did  she  do?  Poured  her  own  great  heart  and 
her  own  high  spirit  into  the  patriot's  heart  and 
soul,  and  so  did  all.  Now  as  she  goes  to  and 
fro  in  her  daily  life,  soft-eyed  still  and  serene, 
she  seems  to  me  no  longer  a  beautiful  girl,  but  a 
saint  wrapped  around  already  with  the  radiance 
of  immortality. 

Under  God,  the  only  question,  as  to  whether 
this  war  shall  be  conducted  to  a  shameful  or  an 
honorable  close,  is  not  of  men  or  money  or  material 
resource.  In  these  our  superiority  is  unquestioned. 
As  Wellington  phrased  it,  there  is  hard  pounding ; 
but  we  shall  pound  the  longest,  if  only  our  hearts 
do  not  fail  us.  Women  need  not  beat  then:  pewter 
spoons  into  bullets,  for  there  are  plenty  of  bullets 
without  them.  It  is  not  whether  our  soldiers  shall 
fight  a  good  fight ;  they  have  played  the  man  on  a 
hundred  battle-fields.  It  is  not  whether  officers 
are  or  are  not  competent ;  generals  have  blundered 
nations  into  victory  since  the  world  began.  It  is 
whether  this  people  shall  have  virtue  to  endure  to 
the  end,  —  to  endure,  not  starving,  not  cold,  but 
the  pangs  of  hope  deferred,  of  disappointment  and 
uncertainty,  of  commerce  deranged  and  outward 
prosperity  checked.  Will  our  vigilance  to  detect 


258  A    CALL   TO 

treachery  and  our  perseverance  to  punish  it  hold 
out  ?  If  we  stand  firm,  we  shall  be  saved,  though 
so  as  by  fire.  If  we  do  not,  we  shall  fall,  and 
shall  richly  deserve  to  fall ;  and  may  God  sweep 
us  off  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  plant  in  our 
stead  a  nation  with  the  hearts  of  men  ! 

O  women,  here  you  may  stand  powerful,  invin- 
cible, I  had  almost  said  omnipotent.  Rise  now  to 
the  heights  of  a  sublime  courage,  —  for  the  hour 
has  need  of  you.  When  the  first  ball  smote  the 
rocky  sides  of  Sumter,  the  rebound  thrilled  from 
shore  to  shore,  and  waked  the  slumbering  hero  in 
every  human  soul.  Then  every  eye  flamed,  every 
lip  was  touched  with  a  live  coal  from  the  sa- 
cred altar,  every  form  dilated  to  the  stature  of 
the  ideal  time.  Then  we  felt  in  our  veins  the 
pulse  of  immortal  youth.  Then  all  the  chivalry 
of  the  ancient  days,  all  the  heroism,  all  the  self- 
sacrifice  that  shaped  itself  into  noble  living,  came 
back  to  us,  poured  over  us,  swept  away  the 
dross  of  selfishness  and  deception  and  petty  schem- 
ing, and  Patriotism  rose  from  the  swelling  wave 
stately  as  a  goddess.  Patriotism,  that  had  been 
to  us  but  a  dingy  and  meaningless  antiquity,  took 
on  a  new  form,  a  new  mien,  a  countenance  di- 
vinely fair  and  forever  young,  and  received  once 
more  the  homage  of  our  hearts.  Was  that  a 
childish  outburst  of  excitement,  or  the  glow  of  an 
aroused  principle  ?  Was  it  a  puerile  anger,  or  a 
manly  indignation  ?  Did  we  spring  up  startled 


MY  COUNTRYWOMEN.  259 

pygmies,  or  girded  giants  ?  If  the  former,  let  us 
veil  our  faces,  and  march  swiftly  (and  silently)  to 
merciful  forgetfulness.  If  the  latter,  shall  we  not 
lay  aside  every  weight,  and  this  besetting  sin  of 
despondency,  and  run  with  patience  the  race  set 
before  us  ? 

A  true  philosophy  and  a  true  religion  make  the 
way  possible  to  us.  The  Most  High  ruleth  in  the 
kingdom  of  men,  and  giveth  it  to  whomsoever  He 
will ;  and  he  never  yet  willed  that  a  nation  strong 
in  means,  and  battling  for  the  right,  should  be 
given  over  to  a  nation  weak  and  battling  for  the 
wrong.  Nations  have  their  future  —  reward  and 
penalty  —  in  this  world ;  and  it  is  as  certain  as 
God  lives,  that  Providence  and  the  heaviest  bat- 
talions will  prevail.  We  have  had  reverses,  but 
no  misfortune  hath  happened  unto  us  but  such  as 
is  common  unto  nations.  Country  has  been  sacri- 
ficed to  partisanship.  Early  love  has  fallen  away, 
and  lukewarmness  has  taken  its  place.  Unlimited 
enthusiasm  has  given  place  to  limited  stolidity. 
Disloyalty,  overawed  at  first  into  quietude,  has 
lifted  its  head  among  us,  and  waxes  wroth  and 
ravening.  There  are  dissensions  at  home  worse 
than  the  guns  of  our  foes.  Some  that  did  run 
well  have  faltered ;  some  signal-lights  have  gone 
shamefully  out,  and  some  are  lurid  with  a  baleful 
glare.  But  unto  this  end  were  we  born,  and  for 
this  cause  came  we  into  the  world.  When  shall 
greatness  of  s  ml  stand  forth,  if  not  in  evil  times  ? 


260  A   CALL   TO 

When  the  skies  are  fair  and  the  seas  smooth,  all 
ships  sail  festively.  But  the  clouds  lower,  the 
winds  shriek,  the  waves  boil,  and  immediately 
each  craft  shows  its  quality.  The  deep  is  strown 
with  broken  masts,  parted  keels,  floating  wrecks ; 
but  here  and  there  a  ship  rides  the  raging  sea,  and 
flings  defiance  to  the  wind.  She  overlives  the  sea 
because  she  is  sea-worthy.  Not  our  eighty  years 
of  peace  alone,  but  our  two  years  of  war,  are  the 
touchstone  of  our  character.  We  have  rolled  our 
Democracy  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  our  tongue ; 
we  have  gloried  in  the  prosperity  which  it  brought 
to  the  individual ;  but  if  the  comforts  of  men 
minister  to  the  degradation  of  man,  if  Democracy 
levels  down  and  does  not  level  up,  if  our  era  of 
peace  and  plenty  leaves  us  so  feeble  and  frivolous, 
so  childish,  so  impatient,  so  deaf  to  all  that  calls  to 
us  from  the  past,  and  entreats  us  in  the  future, 
that  we  faint  and  fail  under  the  stress  of  our  one 
short  effort,  then  indeed  is  our  Democracy  our 
shame  and  curse.  Let  us  show  now  what  manner 
of  people  we  are.  Let  us  be  clear-sighted  and  far- 
sighted  to  see  how  great  is  the  issue  that  hangs 
upon  the  occasion.  It  is  not  a  mere  military  repu- 
tation that  is  at  stake,  not  the  decay  of  a  genera- 
tion's commerce,  not  the  determination  of  this  or 
that  party  to  power.  It  is  the  question  of  the 
world  that  we  have  been  set  to  answer.  In  the 
great  conflict  of  ages,  the  long  strife  between  right 
and  wrong,  between  progress  and  sluggardy, 


MY  COUNTRYWOMEN.  261 

through  the  providence  of  God  we  are  placed  in 
the  vanguard.  Three  hundred  years  ago  a  world 
was  unfolded  for  the  battle-ground.  Choice  spirits 
came  hither  to  level  and  intrench.  Swords  clashed 
and  blood  flowed,  and  the  great  reconnoisance  was 
successfully  made.  Since  then  both  sides  have 
been  gathering  strength,  marshalling  forces,  plant- 
ing batteries,  and  to-day  we  stand  in  the  thick  of 
the  fray.  Shall  we  fail  ?  Men  and  women  of 
America,  will  you  fail  ?  Shall  the  cause  go  by 
default?  When  a  great  idea,  that  has  been  up- 
lifted on  the  shoulders  of  generations,  comes  now 
to  its  Thermopylae,  its  glory-gate,  and  needs  only 
stout  hearts  for  its  strong  hands,  —  when  the  eyes 
of  a  great  multitude  are  turned  upon  you,  and  the 
fates  of  dumb  millions  in  the  silent  future  rest 
with  you,  —  when  the  suffering  and  sorrowful,  the 
lowly,  whose  immortal  hunger  for  justice  gnaws  at 
their  hearts,  who  blindly  see,  but  keenly  feel,  by 
their  God-given  instincts,  that  somehow  you  are 
working  out  their  salvation,  and  the  high-born, 
monarchs  in  the  domain  of  mind,  who,  standing 
far  off,  see  with  prophetic  eye  the  two  courses  that 
lie  before  you,  one  to  the  Uplands  of  vindicated 
Right,  one  to  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
alike  fasten  upon  you  their  hopes,  their  prayers, 
their  tears,  —  will  you,  for  a  moment's  bodily  com- 
fort and  rest  and  repose,  grind  all  these  expecta- 
tions and  hopes  between  the  upper  and  nether 
millstone  ?  Will  you  fail  the  world  in  this  fateful 


262  A    CALL   TO 

hour  by  your  faint-heartedness  ?  Will  you  fail 
yourself,  and  put  the  knife  to  your  own  throat? 
For  the  peace  which  you  so  dearly  buy  shall  bring 
to  you  neither  ease  nor  rest.  You  will  but  have 
spread  a  bed  of  thorns.  Failure  will  write  disgrace 
upon  the  brow  of  this  generation,  and  shame  will 
outlast  the  age.  It  is  not  with  us  as  with  the 
South.  She  can  surrender  without  dishonor.  She 
is  the  weaker  power,  and  her  success  will  be 
against  the  nature  of  things.  Her  dishonor  lay  in 
her  attempt,  not  in  its  relinquishment.  But  we 
shall  fail,  not  because  of  mechanics  and  mathe- 
matics, but  because  our  manhood  and  womanhood 
weighed  in  the  balance  are  found  wanting.  There 
are  few  who  will  not  share  in  the  sin.  There  are 
none  who  will  not  share  in  the  shame.  Wives, 
would  you  hold  back  your  husbands?  Mothers, 
would  you  keep  your  sons?  From  what?  for 
what  ?  From  the  doing  of  the  grandest  duty  that 
ever  ennobled  man,  to  the  grief  of  the  greatest 
infamy  that  ever  crushed  him  down.  You  would 
hold  him  back  from  prizes  before  which  Olympian 
laurels  fade,  for  a  fate  before  which  a  Helot  slave 
might  cower.  His  country  in  the  agony  of  her 
death-struggle  calls  to  him  for  succor.  All  the 
blood  in  all  the  ages,  poured  out  for  liberty, 
poured  out  for  him,  cries  unto  him  from  the 
ground.  All  that  life  has  of  noble,  of  heroic, 
beckons  him  forward.  Death  itself  wears  for  him 
a  golden  crown.  Ever  since  the  world  swung 


MY  COUNTRYWOMEN.  263 

free  from  God's  hand,  men  have  died,  —  obeying 
the  blind  fiat  of  Nature ;  but  only  once  in  a  gen- 
eration comes  the  sacrificial  year,  the  year  of  ju- 
bilee, when  men  'march  lovingly  to  meet  their  fate 
and  die  for  a  nation's  life.  Holding  back,  we 
transmit  to  those  that  shall  come  after  us  a  black- 
ened waste.  The  little  one  that  lies  in  his  cradle 
will  be  accursed  for  our  sakes.  Every  child  will 
be  base-born,  springing  from  ignoble  blood.  We 
inherited  a  fair  fame,  and  bays  from  a  glorious 
battle ;  but  for  him  is  no  background,  no  stand- 
point. His  country  will  be  a  burden  on  his  shoul- 
ders, a  blush  upon  his  cheek,  a  chain  about  his 
feet.  There  is  no  career  for  the  future,  but  a 
weary  effort,  a  long,  a  painful,  a  heavy-hearted 
struggle  to  lift  the  land  out  of  its  slough  of  degra- 
dation and  set  it  once  more  upon  a  dry  place. 

Therefore  let  us  have  done  at  once  and  forever 
with  paltry  considerations,  with  talk  of  despond- 
ency and  darkness.  Let  compromise,  submission, 
and  every  form  of  dishonorable  peace  be  not  so 
much  as  named  among  us.  Tolerate  no  coward's 
voice  or  pen  or  eye.  Wherever  the  serpent's 
head  is  raised,  strike  it  down.  Measure  every 
man  by  the  standard  of  manhood.  Measure  coun- 
try's price  by  country's  worth,  and  country's  worth 
by  country's  integrity.  Let  a  cold,  clear  breeze 
sweep  down  from  the  mountains  of  life,  and  drive 
out  these  miasmas  that  befog  and  beguile  the 
unwary.  Around  every  hearthstone  let  sunshine 


2G4     A    CALL   TO  MY  COUNTRYWOMEN. 

gleam.  In  every  home  let  fatherland  have  its 
altar  and  its  fortress.  From  every  household  let 
words  of  cheer  and  resolve  and  high-heartiness 
ring  out,  till  the  whole  land  is  shining  and  reso- 
nant in  the  bloom  of  its  awakening  spring. 


A  SPASM  OF  SENSE, 


A  SPASM  OF  SENSE. 


HE  conjunction  of  amiability  and  sense 
in  the  same  individual  renders  that 
individual's  position  in  -a  world  like 
this  very  disagreeable.  Amiability 
without  sense,  or  sense  without  amiability,  runs 
along  smoothly  enough.  The  former  takes  things 
as  they  are.  It  receives  all  glitter  as  pure  gold, 
and  does  not  see  that  it  is  custom  alone  which 
varnishes  wrong  with  a  shiny  coat  of  respectability, 
and  glorifies  selfishness  with  the  aureole  of  sacri- 
fice. It  sets  down  all  collisions  as  foreordained, 
and  never  observes  that  they  occur  because  people 
will  not  smooth  off  their  angles,  but  sharpen  them, 
and  not  only  sharpen  them,  but  run  them  into  you. 
It  forgets  that  the  Lord  made  man  upright,  but  he 
hath  sought  out  many  inventions.  It  attributes 
all  the  confusion  and  inaptitude  which  it  finds  to 
the  nature  of  things,  and  never  suspects  that  the 
Devil  goes  around  in  the  night,  thrusting  the 
square  men  into  the  round  places,  and  the  round 


268  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

men  into  the  square  places.  It  never  notices  that 
the  reason  why  the  rope  does  not  unwind  easily  is 
because  one  strand  is  a  world  too  large,  and  another 
a  world  too  small,  and  so  it  sticks  where  it  ought  to 
roll,  and  rolls  where  it  ought  to  stick.  It  makes 
sweet,  faint  efforts,  with  tender  fingers  and  palpi- 
tating heart  to  oil  the  wheels  and  polish  up  the  ma- 
chine, and  does  not  for  a  moment  imagine  that  the 
hitch  is  owing  to  original  incompatibility  of  parts  and 
purposes,  that  the  whole  machine  must  be  pulled 
to  pieces  and  made  over,  and  that  nothing  will  be 
done  by  standing  patiently  by,  trying  to  soothe 
away  the  creaking  and  wheezing  and  groaning  of 
the  laboring,  lumbering  thing,  by  laying  on  a  little 
drop  of  sweet  oil  with  a  pin-feather.  .  As  it  does 
not  see  any  of  these  things  tliat  are  happening  be- 
fore its  eyes,  of  course  it  is  shallowly  happy.  And 
on  the  other  hand,  he  who  does  see  them,  and  is 
not  amiable,  is  grimly  and  Grendally  happy.  He 
likes  to  say  disagreeable  things,  and  all  this  dismay 
and  disaster  scatter  disagreeable  things  broadcast 
along  his  path,  so  that  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  pick 
them  up  and  say  them.  Therefore  this  world  is 
his  paradise.  He  would  not  know  what  to  do 
with  himself  in  a  world  where  matters  were  sorted 
and  folded  and  laid  away  ready  for  you  when  you 
should  want  them.  He  likes  to  see  human  affairs 
mixing  themselves  up  in  irretrievable  confusion. 
If  he  detects  a  symptom  of  straightening,  it  shall 
go  hard  but  he  will  thrust  in  his  own  fingers  and 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  269 

snarl  a  thread  or  two.  He  is  delighted  to  find 
dogged  duty  and  eager  desire  butting  each  other. 
All  the  irresistible  forces  crashing  against  all  the 
immovable  bodies  give  him  no  shock,  only  a  pleas- 
ant titillation.  He  is  never  so  happy  as  when  men 
are  taking  hold  of  things  by  the  blade,  and  cutting 
their  hands,  and  losing  blood.  He  tells  them  of 
it,  but  not-^  order  to  relieve  so  much  as  to  "  ag- 
gravate "  ti  n ;  and  he  does  aggravate  them,  and 
is  satisfied,  v),  but  he  is  an  aggravating  person ! 

It  is  you,  you  who  combine  the  heart  of  a  seraph 
with  the  head  of  a  cherub,  who  know  what  trouble 
is.  You  see  where  the  shoe  pinches,  but  your 
whole  soul  shrinks  from  pointing  out  the  tender 
place.  You  see  why  things  go  wrong,  and  how 
they  might  be  set  right;  but  you  have  a  mortal 
dread  of  being  thought  meddlesome  and  imper- 
tinent, or  cold  and  cruel,  or  restless  and  arro- 
gant, if  you  attempt  to  demolish  the  wrong  or 
rebel  against  the  custom.  When  you  draw  your 
bow  at  an  abuse,  people  think  you  are  trying  to 
bring  down  religion  and  propriety  and  humanity. 
But  your  conscience  will  not  let  you  see  the  abuse 
raving  to  and  fro  over  the  earth  without  taking 
aim ;  so,  either  way,  you  are  cut  to  the  heart. 

I  love  men.  I  adore  women.  I  value  their 
good  opinion.  There  is  much  in  them  to  applaud 
and  imitate.  There  i»  much  in  them  to  elicit  faith 
and  reverence.  If,  only,  one  could  see  their  good 
qualities  alone,  or,  seeing  their  vapid  and  vicious 


270  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

ones,  could  contemplate  them  with  no  touch  of 
tenderness  for  the  owner,  life  might  indeed  be 
lovely.  As  it  is,  while  I  am  at  one  moment  rapt 
in  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the  strength  and 
grace,  the  power  and  pathos,  the  hidden  resources, 
the  profound  capabilities  of  my  race,  at  another,  I 
could  wish,  Nero-like,  that  ah1  mankind  were  con- 
centrated in  one  person,  and  all  womankind  in 
another,  that  1  might  take  them,  after  the  fashion 
of  rural  schoolmasters,  and  shake  their  heads  to- 
gether. Condemnation  and  reproach  are  not  in 
my  line ;  but  there  is  so  much  in  the  world  that 
merits  condemnation  and  reproach,  and  receives 
indifference  and  even  reward,  there  is  so  much 
acquiescence  in  wrong  doing  and  wrong  thinking, 
so  much  letting  things  jolt  along  in  the  same  rut 
wherein  we  and  they  were  born,  without  inquiring 
whether,  lifted  into  another  groove,  they  might 
not  run  more  easily,  that,  if  one  who  does  see  the 
difficulty  holds  his  peace,  the  very  stones  will  cry 
out.  However  gladly  one  would  lie  on  a  bed  of 
roses  and  glide  silken-sailed  down  the  stream  of 
life,  how  exquisitely  painful  soever  it  may  be  to 
say  what  you  fear  and  feel  may  give  pain,  it  is 
only  a  Sybarite  who  sets  ease  above  righteousness, 
only  a  coward  who  misses  victory  through  dread 
of  defeat. 

There  are  many  false  ^deas  afloat  regarding 
womanly  duties.  I  do  not  design  now  to  open 
anew  any  vulgar,  worn-out,  woman's-rightsy  ques- 


A    SPASM  OF  SENSE.  271 

tion.  Every  remark  that"~could  be  made  on  tnat 
theme  has  been  made  —  but  one,  and  that  I  will 
take  the  liberty  to  make  now  in  a  single  sentence, 
and  close  the  discussion.  It  is  this  :  the  man  who 
gave  rubber-boots  to  women  did  more  to  elevate 
woman  than  all  the  theorizers,  male  or  female,  that 
ever  were  born. 

But  without  any  suspicious  lunges  into  that 
dubious  region  which  lies  outside  of  woman's 
universally  acknowledged  "  sphere,"  (a  blignt  rest 
upon  the  word  !)  there  is  within  the  pale,  within 
the  boundary-line  which  the  most  conservative 
never  dreamed  of  questioning,  room  foi'  a  great 
divergence  of  ideas.  Now  divergence  of  ideas 
does  not  necessarily  imply  fighting  at  short  range. 
People  may  adopt  a  course  of  conduct  which  you 
do  not  approve  ;  yet  you  may  feel  it  your  duty  to 
make  no  open  animadversion.  Circumstances  may 
have  suggested  such  a  course  to  them,  or  forced  it 
upon  them  ;  and  perhaps,  considering  all  things,  it 
is  the  best  they  can  do.  But  when,  encouraged 
by  your  silence,  they  publish  it  to  the  world,  not 
only  as  relatively,  but  intrinsically,  the  best  and 
most  desirable,  —  when,  not  content  with  swallow- 
ing it  themselves  as  medicine,  they  insist  on  ram- 
ming it  down  your  throat  as  food,  —  it  is  time  to 
buckle  on  your  armor,  and  have  at  them. 

A  little  book,  published  by  the  Tract  Society, 
called  "  The  Mother  and  her  Work,"  has  been 
doing  just  this  thing.  It  is  a  modest  little  book. 


272  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

It  makes  no  pretensions  to  literary  or  other  supe- 
riority. It  has  much  excellent  counsel,  pious  re- 
flection, and  comfortable  suggestion.  Being  a 
little  book,  it  costs  but  little,  and  it  will  console, 
refresh,  and  instruct  weary,  conscientious  moth- 
ers, and  so  have  a  large  circulation,  a  wide  influ- 
ence, and  do  an  immense  amount  of  mischief. 
For  the  Evil  One  in  his  senses  never  sends  out 
poison  labelled  "  POISON."  He  mixes  it  in  with 
great  quantities  of  innocent  and  nutritive  flour  and 
sugar.  He  shapes  it  in  cunning  shapes  of  pigs 
and  lambs  and  hearts  and  birds  and  braids.  He 
tints  it  with  gay  hues  of  green  and  pink  and  rose, 
and  puts  it  in  the  confectioner's  glass  windows, 
where  you  buy  —  what  ?  Poison  ?  No,  indeed  ! 
Candy,  at  prices  to  suit  the  purchasers.  So  this 
good  and  pious  little  book  has  such  a  preponder- 
ance of  goodness  and  piety  that  the  poison  in  it 
will  not  be  detected,  except  by  chemical  analysis. 
It  will  go  down  sweetly,  like  grapes  of  Beulah. 
Nobody  will  suspect  he  is  poisoned  ;  but  just  so 
far  as  it  reaches  and  touches,  the  social  dyspepsia 
will  be  aggravated. 

I  submit  a  few  atoms  of  the  poison  revealed  by 
careful  examination. 

"  The  mother's  is  a  most  honorable  calling. 
'  What  a  pity  that  one  so  gifted  should  be  so  tied 
down !  '  remarks  a  superficial  observer,  as  she 
looks  upon  the  mother  of  a  young  and  increasing 
family.  The  pale,  thin  face  and  feeble  step,  be- 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  273 

speaking  the  multiplied  and  wearying  cares  of 
domestic  life,  elicit  an  earnest  sympathy  from  the 
many,  thoughtlessly  flitting  across  her  pathway, 
and  the  remark  passes  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
4  How  I  pity  her !  What  a  shame  it  is !  She  is 
completely  worn  down  with  so  many  children.' 
It  may  be,  however,  that  this  young  mother  is  one 
who  needs  and  asks  no  pity,"  etc. 

"  But  the  true  mother  yields  herself  uncomplain- 
ingly, yea,  cheerfully,  to  the  wholesome  privation, 

solitude,  and   self-denial  allotted  her Was 

she  fond  of  travelling,  of  visiting  the  wonderful  in 
Nature  and  in  Art,  of  mingling  in  new  and  often- 
varying  scenes  ?  Now  she  has  found  *  an  abiding 
city,'  and  no  allurements  are  strong  enough  to 
tempt. her  thence.  Had  society  charms  for  her, 
and  in  the  social  circle  and  the  festive  throng  were 
her  chief  delights  ?  Now  she  stays  at  home,  and 
the  gorgeous  saloon  and  brilliant  assemblage  give 
place  to  the  nursery  and  the  baby.  Was  she  de- 
voted to  literary  pursuits  ?  Now  the  library  is 
seldom  visited,  the  cherished  studies  are  neglected, 
the  rattle  and  the  doll  are  substituted  for  the  pen. 
Her  piano  is  silent,  while  she  chants  softly  and 
sweetly  the  soothing  lullaby.  Her  dress  can  last 
another  season  now,  and  the  hat  —  oh,  she  does 
not  care,  if  it  is  not  in  the  latest  mode,  for  she  has 
a  baby  to  look  after,  and  has  no  time  for  herself. 
Even  the  ride  and  the  walk  are  given  up,  per- 
haps too  often,  with  the  excuse,  '  Baby-tending 

12*  K 


274  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

is  exercise  enough  for  me.'  Her  whole  life  is 
reversed." 

The  assumption  is,  that  all  this  is  just  as  it 
should  be.  The  thoughtless  person  may  fancy 
that  it  is  a  pity ;  but  it  is  not  a  pity.  This  is  a 
model  mother  and  a  model  state  of  things.  It  is 
not  simply  to  be  submitted  to,  not  simply  to  be  pa- 
tiently borne ;  it  is  to  be  aspired  to  as  the  noblest 
and  holiest  state. 

That  is  the  strychnine.  You  may  counsel  peo- 
ple to  take  joyfully  the  spoiling  of  their  goods,  and 
comfort,  encourage,  and  strengthen  them  by  so 
doing ;  but  when  you  tell  them  that  to  be  robbed 
and  plundered  is  of  itself  a  priceless  blessing,  the 
highest  stage  of  human  development,  you  do  them 
harm;  because,  in  general,  falsehood  is  always 
harmful,  and  because,  in  particular,  so  far  as  you 
influence  them  at  all,  you  prevent  them  from  tak- 
ing measures  to  stop  the  wrong-doing.  You  ought 
to  counsel  them  to  bear  with  Christian  resignation 
what  they  cannot  help  ;  but  you  ought  with  equal 
fervor  to  counsel  them  to  look  around  and  see  if 
there  are  not  many  things  which  they  can  help, 
and  if  there  are,  by  all  means  to  help  them. 
What  is  inevitable  comes  to  us  from  God,  no 
matter  how  many  hands  it  passes  through ;  but 
submission  to  unnecessary  evils  is  cowardice  or 
laziness ;  and  extolling  of  the  evil  as  good  is  sheer 
ignorance,  or  perversity,  or  servility.  Even  the 
ills  that  must  be  borne,  should  be  borne  under 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  275 

protest,  \est  patience  degenerate  into  slavery. 
Christian  character  is  never  formed  by  acquies- 
cence in,  or  apotheosis  of  wrong. 

The  principle  that  underlies  these  extracts,  and 
makes  them  ministrative  of  evil,  is  the  principle 
that  a  woman  can  benefit  her  children  by  sacrifi- 
cing herself.  It  teaches,  that  pale,  thin  faces  and 
feeble  steps  are  excellent  things  in  young  mothers, 
—  provided  they  are  gained  by  maternal  duties. 
We  infer  that  it  is  meet,  right,  and  the  bounden 
duty  of  such  to  give  up  society,  reading,  riding, 
music,  and  become  indifferent  to  dress,  cultivation, 
recreation,  to  everything,  in  short,  except  taking 
care  of  the  children.  It  is  all  just  as  wrong  as  it 
can  be.  It  is  wrong  morally  ;  it  is  wrong  socially; 
wrong  in  principle,  wrong  in  practice.  It  is  a  blun- 
der as  well  as  a  crime,  for  it  works  woe.  It  is  a 
wrong  means  to  accomplish  an  end ;  and  it  does 
not  accomplish  the  end,  after  all,  but  demolishes  it. 

On  the  contrary,  the  duty  and  dignity  of  a 
mother  require  that  she  should  never  subordinate 
herself  to  her  children.  When  she  does  so,  she 
does  it  to  their  manifest  injury  and  her  own.  Of 
course,  if  illness  or  accident  demand  unusual  care, 
she  does  well  to  grow  thin  and  pale  in  bestowing 
unusual  care.  But  when  a  mother  in  the  ordinary 
routine  of  life  grows  thin  and  pale,  gives  up  riding, 
reading,  and  the  amusements  and  occupations  of 
life,  there  is  a  wrong  somewhere,  and  her  children 
shall  reap  the  fruits  of  it.  The  father  and  mother 


276  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

are  the  head  of  the  family,  the  most  comely  and 
the  most  honorable  part.  They  cannot  benefit 
their  children  by  descending  from  their  Heaven- 
appointed  places,  and  becoming  perpetual  and  ex- 
clusive feet  and  hands.  This  is  the  great  fault  of 
American  mothers.  They  swamp  themselves  in 
a  slough  of  self-sacrifice.  They  are  smothered  in 
their  own  sweetness.  They  dash  into  domesticity 
with  an  impetus  and  abandonment  that  annihilate 
themselves.  They  sink  into  their  families  like  a 
light  in  a  poisonous  well,  and  are  extinguished. 
.  One  hears  much  complaint  of  the  direction  and 
character  of  female  education.  It  is  dolefully  af- 
firmed that  young  ladies  learn  how  to  sing  operas 
but  not  how  to  keep  house,  —  that  they  can  conju 
gate  Greek  verbs,  but  cannot  make  bread,  —  that 
they  are  good  for  pretty  toying,  but  not  for  homely 
using.  Doubtless  there  is  foundation  for  this  re- 
mark, or  it  would  never  have  been  made.  But  I 
have  been  in  the  East  and  the  West,  and  the 
North  and  the  South  ;  I  know  that  I  have  seen 
the  best  society,  and  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  very 
bad,  if  not  the  worst ;  and  I  never  met  a  woman 
whose  superior  education,  whose  piano,  whose 
pencil,  whose  German,  or  French,  or  any  school- 
accomplishments,  or  even  whose  novels,  clashed 
with  her  domestic  duties.  I  have  read  of  them  in 
books  ;  I  did  hear  of  one  once  ;  but  I  never  met 
one,  —  not  one.  I  have  seen  women,  through 
love  of  gossip,  through  indolence,  through  sheer 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  277 

famine  of  mental  pabulum,  leave  undone  things 
that  ought  to  be  done,  —  rush  to  the  assembly, 
the  lecture-room,  the  sewing-circle,  or  vegetate  in 
squalid,  shabby,  unwholesome  homes  ;  but  I  never 
saw  education  run  to  ruin.  So  it  seems  to  me  that 
we  are  needlessly  alarmed  in  that  direction. 

But  I  have  seen  scores  and  scores  of  women 
leave  school,  leave  their  piano  and  drawing  and 
fancy-work,  and  all  manner  of  pretty  ancl  pleasant 
things,  and  marry  and  bury  themselves.  You  hear 
of  them  about  six  times  in  ten  years,  and  there  is 
a  baby  each  time.  They  crawl  out  of  the  farther 
end  of  the  ten  years,  sallow  and  wrinkled  and 
lank,  —  teeth  gone,  hair  gone,  roses  gone,  plump- 
ness gone,  —  freshness,  and  vivacity,  and  sparkle, 
everything  that  is  dewy,  and  springing,  and  spon- 
taneous, gone,  gone,  gone  forever.  This  our  Tract- 
Society  book  puts  very  prettily.  "  She  wraps 
herself  in  the  robes  of  infantile  simplicity,  and, 
burying  her  womanly  nature  in  the  tomb  of  child- 
hood, patiently  awaits  the  sure-coming  resurrection 
in  the  form  of  a  noble,  high-minded,  world-stirring 
son,  or  a  virtuous,  lovely  daughter.  The  nursery 
is  the  mother's  chrysalis.  Let  her  abide  for  a  little 
season,  and  she  shall  emerge  triumphantly,  with 
ethereal  wings  and  a  happy  flight." 

But  the  nursery  ought  not  to  be  the  moth- 
er's chrysalis.  God  never  intended  her"  to  wind 
herself  up  into  a  cocoon.  If  he  had,  he  would 
have  made  her  a  caterpillar.  She  has  no  right  to 


278  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

bury  her  womanly  nature  in  the  tomb  of  child- 
hood. It  will  surely  be  required  at  her  hands. 
It  was  given  her  to  sun  itself  in  the  broad,  bright 
day,  to  root  itself  fast  and  firm  in  the  earth,  to 
spread  itself  wide  to  the  sky,  that  her  children 
in  their  infancy  and  youth  and  maturity,  that  her 
husband  in  his  strength  and  his  weakness,  that 
her  kinsfolk  and  neighbors  and  the  poor  of  the 
land,  the  halt  and  the  blind  and  all  Christ's  little 
ones,  may  sit  under  its  shadow  with  great  delight. 
No  woman  has  a  right  to  sacrifice  her  own  soul  to 
problematical,  high-minded,  world-stirring  sons, 
and  virtuous,  lovely  daughters.  To  be  the  mother 
of  such,  one  might  perhaps  pour  out  one's  life  in 
draughts  so  copious  that  the  fountain  should  run 
dry  ;  but  world-stirring  people  are  extremely  rare. 
One  in  a  century  is  a  liberal  allowance.  The  over- 
whelming probabilities  are,  that  her  sons  will  be 
lawyers  and  shoemakers  and  farmers  and  com- 
mission-merchants, her  daughters  nice,  "smart," 
pretty  girls,  all  good,  honest,  kind-hearted,  com- 
monplace people,  not  at  all  world-stirring,  not  at 
all  the  people  one  would  glory  to  merge  one's  self 
in.  If  the  mother  is  not  satisfied  with  this,  if 
she  wants  them  otherwise,  she  must  be  otherwise. 
The  surest  way  to  have  high-minded  children  is  to 
be  high-minded  yourself.  A  man  cannot  burrow 
in  his  counting-room  for  ten  or  twenty  of  the  best 
years  of  his  life,  and  come  out  as  much  of  a  man 
and  as  little  of  a  mole  as  he  went  in.  But  the 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  279 

twenty  years  should  have  ministered  to  his  man- 
hood, instead  of  trampling  on  it.  Still  less  can  a 
woman  bury  herself  in  her  nursery,  and  come  out 
without  harm.  But  the  years  should  have  done 
her  great  good.  This  world  is  not  made  for  a 
tomb,  but  a  garden.  You  are  to  be  a  seed,  not 
a  death.  Plant  yourself,  and  you  will  sprout. 
Bury  yourself,  and  you  can  only  decay.  For  a 
dead  opportunity  there  is  no  resurrection.  The 
only  enjoyment,  the  only  use  to  be  attained  in  this 
world,  must  be  attained  on  the  wing.  *Each  day 
brings  its  own  happiness,  its  own  benefit ;  but  it 
has  none  to  spare.  What  escapes  to-day  is  escaped 
forever.  To-morrow  has  no  overflow  to  atone  for 
the  lost  yesterdays. 

Few  things  are  more  painful  to  look  upon  than 
the  self-renunciation,  the  self-abnegation  of  moth- 
ers, —  painful  both  for  its  testimony  and  its  proph- 
ecy. Its  testimony  is  of  over-care,  over-work, 
over-weariness,  the  abuse  of  capacities  that  were 
bestowed  for  most  sacred  uses,  an  utter  waste  of 
most  pure  and  life-giving  waters.  Its  prophecy  is 
of  early  decline  and  decadence,  forfeiture  of  position 
and  power,  and  worst,  perhaps,  of  all,  irreparable 
loss  and  grievous  wrong  to  the  children  for  whom 
all  is  sacrificed. 

God  gives  to  the  mother  supremacy  in  her 
family.  It  belongs  to  her  to  maintain  it.  This 
cannot  be  done  without  exertion.  The  temptation 
to  come  down  from  her  throne,  and  become  a  mere 


280     -  A    SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

hewer  cu  wood  and  drawer  of  water  is  very  strong. 
It  is  so  much  easier  to  work  with  the  hands  than 
with  the  head.  One  can  chop  sticks  all  day  se- 
renely unperplexed.  But  to  administer  a  gov- 
ernment demands  observation  and  knowledge  and 
judgment  and  resolution  and  inexhaustible  pa- 
tience. Yet,  however  uneasy  lies  the  head  that 
wears  the  crown  of  womanhood,  that  crown  can- 
not be  bartered  away  for  any  baser  wreath  without 
infinite  harm.  In  both  cases  there  must  be  sacri- 
fice ;  but  4n  the  one  case  it  is  unto  death,  in  the 
other  unto  life.  If  the  mother  stands  on  high 
ground,  she  brings  her  children  up  to  her  own 
level ;  if  she  sinks,  they  sink  with  her. 

To  maintain  her  rank,  no  exertion  is  too  great, 
no  means  too  small.  Dress  is  one  of  the  most 
obvious  things  to  a  child.  If  the  mother  wears 
cheap  or  shabby  or  ill-assorted  clothes,  while  the 
children's  are  fine  and  harmonious,  it  is  impossible 
that  they  should  not  receive  the  impression  that 
they  are  of  more  consequence  than  their  mother. 
Therefore,  for  her  children's  sake,  if  not  for  her 
own,  the  mother  should  always  be  well-dressed. 
Her  baby,  so  far  as  it  is  concerned  in  the  matter, 
instead  of  being  an  excuse  for  a  faded  bonnet, 
should  be  an  inducement  for  a  fresh  one.  It  is 
not  a  question  of  riches  or  poverty ;  it  is  a  thing 
of  relations.  It  is  simply  that  the  mother's  dress 
—  her  morning  and  evening  and  street  and  church  . 
dress  —  should  be  quite  as  good  as,  and  if  there  is 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  281 

any  difference,  better  than  her  child's.  It  is  of 
no  manner  of  consequence  how  a  child  is  clad, 
provided  only  its  health  be  not  injured,  its  taste 
corrupted,  or  its  self-respect  wounded.  Children 
look  prettier  in  the  cheapest  and  simplest  materials 
than  in  the  richest  and  most  elaborate.  But  how 
common  is  it  to  see  the  children  gayly  caparisoned  in 
silk  and  feathers  and  flounces,  while  the  mother  is 
enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  cottony  fadiness ! 
One  would  take  the  child  to  be  mistress,  and  the 
mother  a  servant.  "  But,"  the  mother  says,  "  I 
do  not  care  for  dress,  and  Caroline  does.  She, 
poor  child,  would  be  mortified  not  to  be  dressed 
like  the  other  children."  Then  do  you  teach  her 
better.  Plant  in  her  mind  a  higher  standard  of 
self-respect.  Don't  tell  her  you  cannot  afford  to 
do  for  her  thus  and  thus  ;  that  will  scatter  prema- 
ture -  thorns  along  her  path ;  but  say  that  you  do 
not  approve  of  it ;  it  is  proper  for  her  to  dress  in 
such  and  such  a  way.  And  be  so  nobly  and 
grandly  a  woman  that  she  shall  have  faith  in 
you. 

It  is  essential  also  that  the  mother  have  sense, 
intelligence,  comprehension.  As  much  as  she  can 
add  of  education  and  accomplishments  will  in- 
crease her  stock  in  trade.  Her  reading  and  riding 
and  music,  instead  of  being  neglected  for  her  chil- 
dren's sake,  should  for  their  sake  be  scrupulously 
cultivated.  Of  the  two  things,  it  is  a  thousand 
times  better  that  they  should  be  attended  by  a 


282  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

nursery-maid  in  their  infancy  than  by  a  feeble, 
timid,  inefficient  matron  in  their  youth.  The 
mother  can  oversee  half  a  dozen  children  with  a 
nurse  ;  but  she  needs  all  her  strength,  all  her  mind, 
her  own  eyes,  and  ears,  and  quick  perceptions, 
and  delicate  intuition,  and  calm  self-possession, 
when  her  sturdy  boys  and  wild  young  girls  are 
leaping  and  bounding  and  careering  into  their 
lusty  life.  All  manner  of  novel  temptations  be- 
set them,  —  perils  by  night  and  perils  by  day,  — 
perils  in  the  house  and  by  the  way.  Their  fierce 
and  hungry  young  souls,  rioting  in  awakening 
consciousness,  ravening  for  pleasure,  strong  and 
tumultuous,  snatch  eagerly  at  every  bait.  They 
want  then  a  mother  able  to  curb,  and  guide,  and 
rule  them ;  and  only  a  mother  who  commands 
their  respect  can  do  this.  Let  them  see  her  sought 
for  her  social  worth,  —  let  them  see  that  she  is 
familiar  with  all  the  conditions  gf  their  life,  —  that 
her  vision  is  at  once  broader  and  keener  than 
theirs,  —  that  her  feet  have  travelled  along  the 
paths  they  are  just  beginning  to  explore,  —  that 
she  knows  all  the  phases  alike  of  their  strength 
and  their  weakness,  —  and  her  influence  over  them 
is  unbounded.  Let  them  see  her  uncertain,  un- 
comfortable, hesitating,  fearful  without  discrimi- 
nation, leaning  where  she  ought  to  support,  in- 
terfering without  power  of  suggesting,  counselling, 
but  not  controlling,  with  no  presence,  no  bearing, 
no  experience,  no  prestige,  and  they  will  carry 


A    SPASM  OF  SENSE.  283 

matters  -with  a  high  hand.  They  will  overrule 
her  decisions,  and  their  love  will  not  be  unmin- 
gled  with  contempt.  It  will  be  strong  enough  to 
prick  them  when  they  have  done  wrong,  but  not 
strong  enough  to  keep  them  from  doing  wrong. 

Nothing  gives  a  young  girl  such  vantage-ground 
in  society  and  in  life  as  a  mother,  —  a  sensible, 
amiable,  brilliant,  and  commanding  woman.  Un- 
der the  shelter  of  such  a  mother's  wing,  the  neo- 
phyte is  safe.  This  mother  will  attract  to  herself 
the  wittiest  and  the  wisest.  The  young  girl  can 
see  society  in  its  best  phases,  without  being  her- 
self drawn  out  into  its  glare.  She  forms  her  own 
style  on  the  purest  models.  She  gains  confidence,, 
without  losing  modesty.  Familiar  with  wisdom, 
she  will  not  be  dazed  by  folly.  Having  the  op- 
portunity to  make  observations  before  she  begins 
to  be  observed,  she  does  not  become  the  prey  of 
the  weak  and  the  wicked.  Her  taste  is  strength- 
ened and  refined,  her  standard  elevates  itself,  her 
judgment  acquires  a  firm  basis.  But  cast  upon 
her  own  resources,  her  own  blank  inexperience, 
at  her  first  entrance  into  the  world,  with  nothing 
to  stand  between  her  and  what  is  openly  vapid 
and  covertly  vicious,  with  no  clear  eye  to  detect 
for  her  the  false-  and  distinguish  the  true,  no 
strong,  firm,  judicious  hand  to  guide  tenderly  and 
undeviatingly,  to  repress  without  irritating  and 
encourage  without  emboldening,  what  wonder  that 
the  peach-bloom  loses  its  delicacy,  deepening  into 


284  A    SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

rouge  or  hardening  into  brass,  and  the  happy 
young  life  is  stranded  on  a  cruel  shore  ? 

Hence  it  follows  that  our  social  gatherings  con- 
sist, to  so  lamentable  an  extent,  of  pert  youngsters, 
or  faded  oldsters.  Thence  come  those  abominable 
"  young  people's  parties,"  where  a  score  or  two 
or  three  of  boys  and  girls  meet  and  manage  after 
their  own  hearts.  Thence  it  happens  that  con- 
versation seems  to  be  taking  its  place  among  the 
Lost  Arts,  and  the  smallest  of  small  talk  reigns 
in  its  stead.  Society,  instead  of  giving  its  tone  to 
the  children,  takes  it  from  them,  and  since  it 
cannot  be  juvenile,  becomes  insipid,  and  because 
.it  is  too  old  to  prattle,  jabbers.  Talkers  are 
everywhere,  but  where  are  the  men  that  say 
things  ?  Where  are  the  people  that  can  be  listened 
to  and  quoted  ?  .  Where  are  the  flinty  people 
whose 'contact  strikes  fire?  Where  are  the  elec- 
tric people  who  thrill  a  whole  circle  with  sudden 
vitality  ?  Where  are  the  strong  people  who  hedge 
themselves  around  with  their  individuality,  and 
will  be  roused  by  no  prince's  kiss,  but  taken  only 
by  storm,  yet  once  captured,  are  sweeter  than  the 
dews  of  Hymettus  ?  Where  are  the  seers,  the 
prophets,  the  Magi,  who  shall  unfold  for  us  the 
secrets  of  the  sky  and  the  seas,  and  the  mystery 
of  human  hearts  ? 

Yet  fathers  and  mothers  not  only  acquiesce  in 
this  state  of  things,  they  approve  of  it.  They 
foster  it.  They  are  forward  to  annihilate  them- 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  285 

selves.  They  are  careful  to  let  their  darlings  go 
out  alone,  lest  they  be  a  restraint  upon  them, — 
as  if  that  were  not  what  parents  were  made  for. 
If  they  were  what  they  ought  to  be,  the  restraint 
would  be  not  only  wholesome,  but  impalpable. 
The  relation  between  parents  and  children  should 
be  such  that  pleasure  shall  not  be  quite  perfect, 
unless  shared  by  both.  Parents  ought  to  take 
such  a  tender,  proud,  intellectual  interest  in  the 
pursuits  and  amusements  of  their  children  that 
the  children  shall  feel  the  glory  of  the  victory 
dimmed,  unless  their  parents  are  there  to  witness 
it.  If  the  presence  of  a  sensible  mother  is  felt 
as  a  restraint,  it  shows  conclusively  that  restraint 
is  needed. 

A  woman  also  needs  self-cultivation,  both  physi- 
cal and  mental,  in  order  to  sglf-respect.  Un- 
doubtedly Diogenes  glorified  himself  in  his  tub. 
But  people  in  general,  and  women  in  universal,  — 
except  the  geniuses,  —  need  the  pomp  of  circum- 
stance. A  slouchy  garb  is  both  effect  and  cause 
of  a  slouchy  mind.  A  woman  who  lets  go  her 
hold  upon  dress,  literature,  music,  amusement, 
will  almost  inevitably  slide  down  into  a  bog  of 
muggy  moral  indolence.  She  will  lose  her  spirit , 
and  when  the  spirit  is  gone  out  of  a  woman,  there 
is  not  much  left  of  her.  When  she  cheapens 
herself,  she  diminishes  her  value.  Especially  when 
the  evanescent  charms  of  mere  youth  are  gone, 
when  the  responsibilities  of  life  have  left  their 


286  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

mark  upon  her,  is  it  indispensable  that  she  attend 
to  all  the  fitnesses  of  externals,  and  strengthen 
and  polish  all  her  mental  and  social  qualities.  By 
this  I  do  not  mean  that  women  should  allow  them- 
selves to  lose  their  beauty  as  they  increase  in  years. 
Men  grow  handsomer  as  they  grow  older.  There 
is  no  reason,  there  ought  to  be  no  reason,  why 
women  should  not.  They  will  have  a  different 
kind  of  beauty,  but  it  will  be  just  as  truly  beauty 
and  more  impressive  and  attractive  than  the  beauty 
of  sixteen.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  God  has 
made  women  so  that  their  glory  passes  away  in 
half  a  dozen  years.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that 
thought  and  feeling  and  passion  and  purpose,  all 
holy  instincts  and  impulses,  can  chisel  away  on 
a  woman's  face  for  thirty,  forty,  fifty  years,  and 
leave  that  face  a^  the  end  worse  than  they  found 
it.  They  found  it  a  negative,  —  mere  skin  and 
bone,  blood  and  muscle  and  fat.  They  can  but 
leave  their  mark  upon  it,  and  the  mark  of  good 
is  good.  Pity  does  not  have  the  same  finger- 
touch  as  revenge.  Love  does  not  hold  the  same 
brush  as  hatred.  Sympathy  and  gratitude  and 
benevolence  have  a  different  sign-manual  from 
cruelty  and  carelessness  and  deceit.  All  these 
busy  little  sprites  draw  their  fine  lines,  lay  on 
their  fine  colors  ;  the  face  lights  up  under  their 
tiny  hands ;  the  prisoned  soul  shines  clearer  and 
clearer  through,  and  there  is  the  consecration  and 
the  poet's  dream. 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  287 

But  such  beauty  is  made,  not  born.  Care  and 
weariness  and  despondency  come  of  themselves, 
and  groove  their  own  furrows.  Hope  and  intel- 
ligence and  interest  a^d  buoyancy  must  be  wooed 
for  their  gentle  and  genial  touch.  A  mother  must 
battle  against  the  tendencies  that  drag  her  down- 
ward. She  must  take  pains  to  grow,  or  she  will 
not  grow.  She  must  sedulously  cultivate  her 
mind  and  heart,  or  her  old  age  will  be  ungrace- 
ful ;  and  if  she  lose  freshness  without  acquiring 
ripeness,  she  is  indeed  in  an  evil  case.  The  first, 
the  most  important  trust  which  God  has  given 
to  any  one  is  himself.  To  secure  this  trust,  He 
has  made  us  so .  that  in  no  possible"  way  can  we 
benefit  the  world  so  much  as  by  making  the  most 
of  ourselves.  Indulging  our  whims,  or,  inordi- 
nately, our  just  tastes,  is  not  developing  ourselves; 
but  neither  is  leaving  our  own  fields  to  grow 
thorns  and  thistles,  that  we  may  plant  somebody 
else's  garden-plot,  keeping  our  charge.  Even 
were  it  possible  for  a  mother  to  work  well  to  her 
children  in  thus  working  ill  to  herself,  I  do  not 
think  she  would  be  justified  in  doing  it.  Her 
account  is  not  complete  when  she  says,  "  Here 
are  they  w-hom  thou  hast  given  me."  She  must 
first  say,  "  Here  am  I."  But  when  it  is  seen 
that  suicide  is  also  child-murder,  it  must  appear 
that  she  is  under  doubly  heavy  bonds  for  herself. 

Husbands,  moreover,  have  claims,  though  wives 
often  ignore  them.  It  is  the  commonest  thing  in 


288  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

the  world  to  see  parents  tender  of  their  children's 
feelings,  alive  to  their  wants,  indulgent  to  their 
tastes,  kind,  considerate,  and  forbearing ;  but  to 
each  other  hasty,  careless,  and  cold.  Conjugal 
love  often  seems  to  die  out  before  parental  love. 
It  ought  not  so  to  be.  Husband  and  wife  should 
each  stand  first  in  the  other's  estimation.  They 
have  no  right  to  forget  each  other's  comfort,  con- 
venience, sensitiveness,  tastes,  or  happiness,  in 
those  of  their  children.  Nothing  can  discharge 
them  from  the  obligations  which  they  are  under  to 
each  other.  But  if  a  woman  lets  herself  become 
shabby,  drudgy,  and  commonplace  as  a  wife,  in 
her  efforts  to  be  perfect  as  a  mother,  can  she  ex- 
pect to  retain  the  consideration  that  is  due  to  the 
wife  ?  Not  a  man  in  the  world  but  would  rather 
see  his  wife  tidy,  neat,  and  elegant  in  her  attire, 
easy  and  assured  in  her  bearing,  intelligent  and 
vivacious  in  her  talk,  than  the  contrary ;  and  if 
she  neglect  these  things,  ought  she  to  be  surprised 
if  he  turns  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new  for 
the  diversion  and  entertainment  which  he  seeks  in 
vain  at  home  ?  This  is  quaky  ground,  but  I  know 
where  I  am,  and  I  am  not  afraid.  I  don't  expect 
men  or  women  to  say  that  they  agree  with  me,  but 
I  am  right  for  all  that.  Let  us  bring  our  common 
sense  to  bear  on  this  point,  and  not  be  fooled  by 
reiteration.  Cause  and  effect  obtain  here  as  else- 
where. If  you  add  two  and  two,  the  result  is  four, 
however  much  you  may  try  to  blink  it.  People 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  289 

do  not  always  tell  lies,  when  they  are  telling  what 
is  not  the  truth ;  but  falsehood  is  still  disastrous. 
Men  and  women  think  they  believe  a  thousand 
things  which  they  do  not  believe ;  but  as  long  as 
they  think  so,  it  is  just  as  bad  as  if  it  were  so. 
Men  talk  —  and  women  listen  and  echo  —  about 
the  overpowering  loveliness  and  charm  of  a  young 
mother  surrounded  by  her  blooming  family,  minis- 
tering to  their  wants  and  absorbed  in  their  welfare, 
self-denying  and  self-forgetful ;  and  she  is  lovely 
and  charming  ;  but  if  this  is  all,  it  is  little  more 
than  the  charm  and  loveliness  of  a  picture.  It  is 
not  magnetic  and  irresistible.  It  has  the  semblance, 
but  not  the  smell  of  life.  It  is  pretty  to  look  at, 
but  it  is  not  vigorous  for  command.  Her  husband 
will  have  a  certain  kind  of  admiration  and  love. 
Her  wish  will  be  law  within  a  certain  very  limited 
sphere ;  but  beyond  that  he  will  not  take  her  into 
his  counsels  and  confidence.  A  \voman  must  make 
herself  obvious  to  her  husband,  or  he  will  drift  out 
beyond  her  horizon.  She  will  be  to  him  very  nearly 
what  she  wills  and  works  to  be.  If  she  adapts  her- 
self to  her  children,  and  does  not  adapt  herself  to 
her  husband,  he  will  fall  into  the  arrangement,  and 
the  two  will  fall  apart.  I  do  not  mean  that  they 
will  quarrel,  but  they  will  lead  separate  lives. 
They  will  be  no  longer  husband  and  wife.  There 
will  be  a  domestic  alliance,  but  no  marriage.  A 
predominant  interest  in  the  same  objects  binds 
them  together  after .  a  fashion  ;  but  marriage  is 


290  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

something  beyond  that.  If  a  woman  wishes  and 
purposes  to  be  the  friend  of  her  husband,  —  if  she 
would  be  valuable  to  him,  not  simply  as  the  nurse 
of  his  children  and  the  directress  of  his  household, 
but  as  a  woman  fresh  and  fair  and  fascinating,  — 
to  him  intrinsically  lovely  and  attractive,  —  she 
should  make  an  effort  for  it.  It  is  not  by  any 
means  a  thing  that  comes  of  itself,  or  that  can  be 
left  to  itself.  She  must  read,  and  observe,  and 
think,  and  rest  up  to  it.  Men,  as  a  general  thing, 
will  not  tell  you  so.  They  talk  about  having  the 
slippers  ready,  and  enjoin  women  to  be  domestic. 
But  men  are  blockheads,  —  dear,  and  affectionate, 
and  generous  blockheads,  —  benevolent,  large- 
hearted,  and  chivalrous,  —  kind,  and  patient,  and 
hard-working,  —  but  stupid  where  women  are  con- 
cerned. Indispensable  and  delightful  as  they  are 
in  real  life,  —  pleasant  and  comfortable  as  women 
actually  find  them,  —  not  one  in  ten  thousand  but 
makes  a  dunce  of  himself  the  moment  he  opens  his 
mouth  to  theorize  about  women.  Besides,  they 
have  "  an  axe  to  grind."  The  pretty  things  they 
inculcate  —  slippers,  and  coffee,  and  care,  and 
courtesy  —  ought  indeed  to  be  done,  but  the  others 
ought  not  to  be  left  undone.  And  to  the  former 
women  seldom  need  to  be  exhorted.  They  take  to 
them  naturally.  A  great  many  more  women  fret 
boorish  husbands  with  fond  little  attentions  than 
wound  appreciative  ones  by  neglect.  "Women  do- 
mesticate themselves  to  death  already.  What  they 


A    SPASM  OF  SENSE.  291 

want  is  cultivation.  They  need  to  be  stimulated 
to  develop  a  large,  comprehensive,  catholic  life,  in 
which  their  domestic  duties  shall  have  an  appro- 
priate niche,  and  not  dwindle  down  to  a  narrow 
and  servile  one,  over  which  those  duties  shall 
spread  and  occupy  the  whole  space. 

This  mistake  is  the  foundation  of  a  world  of 
wretchedness  and  ruin.  I  can  see  Satan  standing 
at  the  mother's'  elbow.  He  follows  her  around  into 
the  nursery  and  the  kitchen.  He  tosses  up  the 
babies  and  the  omelets,  delivers  dutiful  harangues 
about  the  inappropriateness  of  the  piano  and  the 
library,  and  grin's  fiendishly  in  his  sleeve  at  the 
wreck  he  is  making,  —  a  wreck  not  necessarily  of 
character,  but  of  happiness  ;  for  I  suppose  Satan 
has  so  bad  a  disposition,  that,  if  he  cannot  do  all 
the  harm  he  would  wish,  he  will  still  do  all  he  can. 
It  is  true  that  there  are  thousands  of  good  men 
married  to  fond  and  foolish  women,  and  they  are 
both  happy.  Well,  the  fond  and  foolish  women 
are  very  fortunate.  They  have  fallen  into  hands 
that  will  entreat  them  tenderly,  and  they  will  not 
perceive  any  lack.  Nor  are  the  noble  men  wholly 
unfortunate,  in  that  they  have  not  taken  to  their 
hearts  shrews.  But  this  is  not  marriage. 

There  are  women  less  foolish.  They  see  their 
husbands  attracted  in  other  directions  more  often 
and  more  easily  than  in  theirs.  They  have  too 
much  sterling  worth  and  profound  faith  to  be  vul- 
garly jealous.  They  fear  nothing  like  shame  or 


292  A  SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

crime ;  but  they  feel  the  fact  that  their  own  pre- 
occupation with  homely  household  duties  precludes 
real  companionship,  the  interchange  of  emotions, 
thoughts,  sentiments,  —  a  living,  and  palpable,  and 
vivid  contact  of  mind  with  mind,  of  heart  with 
heart.  They  see  others  whose  leisure  ministers  to 
grace,  accomplishments,  piquancy,  and  attractive- 
ness, and  the  moth  flies  towards  the  light  by  his 
own  nature.  Because  he  is  a  wise,  and  virtuous, 
and  honorable  moth,  he  does  not  dart  into  the 
flame.  He  does  not  even  scorch  his  wings.  He 
never  thinks  of  such  a  thing.  He  merely  circles 
around  the  pleasant  light,  sunning  himself  in  it 
without  much  thought  one  way  or  another,  only 
feeling  that  it  is  pleasant ;  but  meanwhile  Mrs. 
Moth  sits  at  home  in  darkness,  mending  the  chil- 
dren's clothes,  which  is  not  exhilarating.  Many  a 
woman  who  feels  that  she  possesses  her  husband's 
affection  misses  something.  She  does  not  secure 
his  fervor,  his  admiration.  His  love  is  honest  and 
solid,  but  a  little  dormant,  and  therefore  dull.  It 
does  not  brace,  and  tone,  and  stimulate.  She 
wants  not  the  love  only,  but  the  keenness,  and 
edge,  and  flavor  of  the  love  ;  and  she  suffers  un- 
told pangs.  I  know  it,  for  I  have  seen  it.  It  is 
not  a  thing  to  be  uttered.  Most  women  do  not 
admit  it  even  to  themselves  ;  but  it  is  revealed  by 
a  lift  of  the  eyelash,  by  a  quiver  of  the  eye,  by  a 
tone  of  the  voice,  by  a  ti'ick  of  the  finger. 

But  what   is   the  good  of  saying  all   this,  if  a 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  293 

woman  cannot  help  herself?  The  children  must 
be  seen  to,  and  the  work  must  be  done,  and  after 
that  she  has  no  time  left.  The  "  mother  of  a 
young  and  increasing  family,"  with  her  "pale, 
thin  face  and  feeble  step,"  and  her  "multiplied 
and  wearying  cares,"  is  "  completely  worn  down 
with  so  many  children."  She  has  neither  time  nor 
spirit  for  self-culture,  beyond  what  she  may  obtain 
in  the  nursery.  What  satisfaction  is  there  in 
proving  that  she  is  far  below  where  she  ought  to 
be,  if  inexorable  circumstance  prevent  her  from 
climbing  higher?  What  use  is  there  in  telling 
her  that  she  will  alienate  her  husband  and  injure 
her  children  by  her  course,  when  there  is  no  other 
course  for  her  to  pursue?  What  can  she  do" 
about  it? 

There  is  one  thing  that  she  need  not  do.  She 
need  not  sit  down  and  write  a  book,  affirming  that 
it  is  the  most  glorious  and  desirable  condition  im- 
aginable. She  need  not  lift  up  her  voice  and  de- 
clare that  "  she  lives  above  the  ills  and  disquietudes 
of  her  condition,  in  an  atmosphere  of  love  and 
peace  and  pleasure  far  beyond  the  storms  and  con- 
flicts of  this  material  life."  Who  ever  heard  of 
the  mother  of  a  young  and  increasing  family  living 
in  an  atmosphere  of  peace,  not  to  say  pleasure, 
above  conflicts  and  storms  ?  Who  does  not  know 
that  the  private  history  of  families  with  •  the 
ordinary  allowance  of  brains,  is  a  record  of  recur- 
ring internecine  warfare?  If  she  said  less,  we 


294  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

might  believe  her.  "When  she  says  so  much,  we 
cannot  help  suspecting.  To  make  the  best  of  any- 
thing, it  is  not  necessary  to  declare  that  it  is  the 
best  thing.  Children  must  be  taken  care  of,  but 
it  is  altogether  probable  that  there  are  too  many 
of  them.  Some  people  think  that  opinion  several 
times  more  atrocious  than  murder  in  the  first  de- 
gree ;  but  I  see  no  atrocity  in  it.  I  think  there 
is  an  immense  quantity  of  nonsense  about,  re- 
garding this  thing.  I  believe  in  Maltlms,  —  a 
great  deal  more  than  Malthus  did  himself.  The 
prosperity  of  a  country  is  often  measured  by  its 
population ;  but  quite  likely  it  should  be  taken 
in  inverse,  ratio.  I  certainly  do  not  see  why  the 
mere  multiplication  of  the  species  is  so  indica- 
tive of  prosperity.  Mobs  are  not  so  altogether 
lovely  that  one  should  desire  their  indefinite  in- 
crease. A  village  is  honorable,  not  according  to 
the  number,  but  the  character  of  its  residents. 
The  drunkards  and  the  paupers  and  the  thieves 
and  the  idiots  rather  diminish  than  increase  its 
respectability.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  world 
would  be  greatly  benefited  by  thinning  out.  Most 
of  the  places  that  I  have  seen  would  be  much  im- 
proved by  being  decimated,  not  to  say  quinqueted 
or  bisected.  If  people  are  stubborn  and  rebellious, 
stiff-necked  and  uncircumcised  in  heart  and  ears, 
the  fewer  of  them  the  better.  A  small  population, 
trained  to  honor  and  virtue,  to  liberality  of  culture 
and  breadth  of  view,  to  self-reliance  and  self-re- 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  295 

spect,  is  a  thousand  times  better  than  an  over- 
crowded one  with  everything  at  loose  ends.  As 
with  the  village,  so  with  the  family.  There  ought 
to  be  no  more  children  than  can  be  healthily  and 
thoroughly  reared,  as  regards  the  moral,  physical, 
and  intellectual  nature  both  of  themselves  and 
their  parents.  All  beyond  this  is  wrong  and  dis- 
astrous. I  know  of  no  greater  crime  than  to  give 
life  to  souls,  and  then  degrade  them,  or  suffer  them 
to  be  degraded.  Children,  are  the  poor  man's 
blessing  and  Cornelia's  jewels,  just  so  long  as  Cor- 
nelia and  the  poor  man  can  make  adequate  pro- 
vision for  them.  But  the  ragged,  filthy,  squalid, 
unearthly  little  wretches  that  wallow  before  the 
poor  man's  shanty-door  are  the  poor  man's  shame 
and  curse.  The  sickly,  sallow,  sorrowful  little 
ones,  shadowed  too  early  by  life's  cares,  are  some- 
thing other  than  a  blessing.  When  Cornelia  finds 
her  children  too  many  for  her,  when  her  step 
trembles  and  her  cheek  fades,  when  the  sparkle 
dies  on  her  chalice-brim  and  her  salt  has  lost  its 
eavor,  her  jewels  are  Tarpeian  jewels.  One  child 
educated  by  healthy  and  happy  parents  is  better 
than  seven  dragging  their  mother  into  the  grave, 
notwithstanding  the  unmeasured  reprobation  of 
our  little  book.  Of  course,  if  they  can  stand 
seven,  very  well.  Seven  and  seventy  times  seven, 
if  you  like,  only  let  them  be  buds,  not  blights. 
If  we  obeyed  the  laws  of  God,  children  would  be 
like  spring  blossoms.  They  would  impart  as  much 


296  A  SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

freshness  and  strength  as  they  abstract.  They  are 
a  natural  institution,  and  Nature  is  eminently 
healthy.  But  when  they  "  come  crowding  into 
the  home-nest,"  as  our  book  daintily  says,  they 
are  unnatural.  God  never  meant  the  home-nest 
to  be  crowded.  There  is  room  enough  and  elbow- 
room  enough  in  the  world  for  everything  that 
ought  to  be  in  it.  The  moment  there  is  crowding, 
you  may  be  sure  something  wrong  is  going  on. 
Either  a  bad  thing  is  happening,  or  too  much  of  a 
good  thing,  which  counts  up  just  the  same.  The 
parents  begin  to  repair  the  evil  by  a  greater  one. 
They  attempt  to  patch  their  own  rents  by  dilapi- 
dating their  children.  They  recruit  their  own 
exhausted  energies  by  laying  hold  of  the  young 
energies  around  them,  and  older  children  are 
wearied,  and  fretted,  and  deformed  in  figure  and 
temper  by  the  care  of  younger  children.  Tliis  is 
horrible.  Some  care  and  task  and  responsibility 
are  good  for  a  child's  own  development;  but  care 
and  toil  and  labor  laid  upon  children  beyond  what 
is  best  for  their  own  character  is  intolerable  and 
inexcusable  oppression.  Parents  have  no  right  to 
lighten  their  own  burdens  by  imposing  them  upon 
the  children.  The  poor  things  had  nothing  to  do 
Avith  being  born.  They  came  into  the  world  with- 
out any  volition  of  their  own.  Their  existence 
began  only  to  serve  the  pleasure  or  the  pride  of 
others.  It  was  a  culpable  cruelty,  in  the  first  place, 
to  introduce  them  into  a  sphere  where  no  adequate 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  297 

provision  could  be  made  for  their  comfort  and  cul- 
ture; but  to  shoulder  them,  after  they  get  here, 
with  the  load  which  belongs  to  their  parents  is  out- 
rageous. Earth  is  not  a  paradise  at  best,  and  at 
worst  it  is  very  near  the  other  place.  The  least  we 
can  do  is  to  make  the  way  as  smooth  as  possible 
for  the  new-comers.  There  is  not  the  least  dan- 
ger that  it  will  be  too  smooth.  If  you  stagger 
under  the  weight  which  you  have  imprudently 
assumed,  stagger.  But  don't  be  such  an  unuttera- 
ble coward  as  to  illumine  your  own  life  by  darken- 
ing the  young  lives  which  sprang  from  yours.  I 
often  wonder  that  children  do  not  open  their 
mouths  and  curse  the  father  that  begat  and  the 
mother  that  bore  them.  I  often  wonder  that 
parents  do  not  tremble  lest  the  cry  of  the  children 
whom  they  oppress  go  up  into  the  ears  of  the 
Lord  of  Sabaoth,  and  bring  down  wrath  upon 
their  guilty  heads.  It  was  well  that  God  planted 
filial  affection  and  reverence  as  an  instinct  in  the 
human  breast.  If  it  depended  upon  reason,  it 
would  have  but  a  precarious  existence. 

I  wish  women  would  have  the  sense  and  cour- 
age, —  I  will  not  say,  to  say  what  they  think,  for  , 
that  is  not  always  desirable,  —  but  to  think  ac- 
cording to  the  facts.  They  have  a  strong  desire 
to  please  men,  which  is  quite  right  and  natural ; 
but  in  their  eagerness  to  do  this,  they  sometimes 
forget  what  is  due  to  themselves.  To  think  namby- 
pambyism  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  men  is  running 


298  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

benevolence  into  the  ground.  Not  that  women  con- 
sciously do  this,  but  they  do  it.  They  don't  mean 
to  pander  to  false  masculine  notions,  but  they  do. 
They  don't  know  that  they  are  pandering  to  them, 
but  they  are.  Men  say  silly  things,  partly  because 
they  don't  know  any  better,  and  partly  because  they 
don't  want  any  better.  They  are  strong,  and  can 
generally  make  shift  to  bear  their  end  gf  the  pole 
without  being  crushed.  So  they  are  tolerably  con- 
tent. They  are  not  very  much  to  blame.  People 
•cannot  be  expected  to  start  on  a  crusade  against 
ills  of  which  they  have  but  a  vague  and  cloudy 
conception.  The  edge  does  not  cut  them,  and 
so  they  think  it  is  not  much  of  a  sword  after  all. 
But  women  have,  or  ought  to  have,  a  more  subtile 
and  intimate  acquaintance  with  realities.  They 
ought  to  know  what  is  fact  and  what  is  fol-de-rol. 
They  ought  to  distinguish  between  the  really  noble 
and  the  simply  physical,  not  to  say  faulty.  If  men 
do  not,  it  is  women's  duty  to  help  them.  I  think, 
if  women  would  only^  not  be  quite  so  afraid  of 
being  thought  unwomanly,  they  would  be  a  great 
deal  more  womanly  than  they  are.  To  be  brave, 
and  single-minded,  and  discriminating,  and  judi- 
cious, and  clear-sighted,  and  self-reliant,  and  deci- 
sive, that  is  pure  womanly.  To  be  womanish  is 
not  to  be  womanly.  To  be  flabby,  and  plastic,  and 
weak,  and  acquiescent,  and  insipid,  is  not  womanly. 
And  I  could  wish  sometimes  that  women  would 
not  be  quite  so  patient.  They  often  exhibit  a 


A   SPASM  OF  SENSE.  299 

degree  of  long-suffering  entirely  unwarrantable. 
There  is  no  use  in  suffering,  unless  you  cannot 
help  it ;  and  a  good,  stout,  resolute  protest  would 
often  be  a  great  deal  more  wise,  and  Christian, 
and  beneficial  on  all  sides,  than  so  much  patient 
endurance.  A  little  spirit  and  "  spunk  "  would  go 
a  great  way  towards  setting  the  world  right.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  be  a  termagant.  The  firmest  will 
and  the  stoutest  heart  may  be  combined  with  the 
gentlest  delicacy.  Tameness  is  not  the  stuff  that 
the  finest  women  are  made  of.  Nobody  can  be 
more  kind,  considerate,  or  sympathizing  towards 
weakness  or  weariness  than  men,  if  they  only 
know  it  exists  ;  and  it  is  a  wrong  to  them  to  go 
on  bolstering  them  up  in  their  bungling  opinions, 
when  a  few  sensible  ideas,  wisely  administered, 
would  do  so  much  to  enlighten  them,  and  reveal 
the  path  which  needs  only  to  be  revealed  to  secure 
their  unhesitating  entrance  upon  it.  It  is  absurd 
to  suppose  that  unvarying  acquiescence  is  neces- 
sary to  secure  and  retain  their  esteem,  and  that  a 
frank  avowal  of  differing  opinions,  even  if  they 
were  wrong,  would  work  its  forfeiture.  A  respect 
held  on  so  frail  a  tenure  were  little  worth.  But  it 
is  not  so.  I  believe  that  manhood  and  womanhood 
are  too  truly  harmonious  to  need  iron  bands,  too 
truly  noble  to  require  the  props  of  falsehood. 
Truth,  simple  and  sincere,  without  partiality  and 
without  hypocrisy,  is  the  best  food  for  both.  If 
any  are  to  be  found  on  either  side  too  weak  to 


300  A   SPASM  OF  SENSE. 

administer  or  digest  it,  the  remedy  is  not  to  mix 
it  with  folly  or  falsehood,  for  they  are  poisons, 
but  to  strengthen  the  organisms  with  wholesome 
tonics,  —  not  undiluted,  perhaps,  but  certainly  un- 
adulterated. 

O  Edmund  Sparkler,  you  builded  better  than 
you  knew,  when  you  reared  eulogiums  upon  the 
woman  with  no  nonsense  about  her. 


CAMILLA'S    CONCERT. 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT  . 


WHO  labor  under  the  suspicion  of  not 
knowing  the  difference  between  "  Old 
Hundred  "  and  "  Old  Dan  Tucker,"  — 
I,  whose  every  attempt  at  music,  though 
only  the  humming  of  a  simple  household  melody, 
has,  from  my  earliest  childhood,  been  regarded  as 
a  premonitory  symptom  of  epilepsy,  or,  at  the  very 
least,  hysterics,  to  be  treated  with "  cold  water,  the 
bellows,  and  an  unmerciful  beating  between  my 
shoulders,  —  I,  who  can  but  with  much  difficulty 
and  many  a  retrogression  make  my  way  among 
the  olden  mazes  of  tenor,  alto,  treble,  bass,  and 
who  stand  "  clean  daft "  in  the  resounding  confu- 
sion of  andante,  soprano,  falsetto,  palmetto,  pianis- 
simo, akimbo,  1'allegro,  and  il  penseroso,  —  /  was 
bidden  to  Camilla's  concert,  and,  like  a  sheep  to 
the  slaughter,  I  went. 

He  bears  a  great  loss  and  sorrow  who  has  "  no 
ear  for  music."  Into  one  great  garden  of  delights 
he  may  not  go.  There  needs  no  flaming  sword  to 


304  CAMILLA'S   CONCERT. 

bar  the  way,  since  for  him  there  is  no  gate  called 
Beautiful  which  he  should  seek  to  enter.  Blunted 
and  stolid  he  stumbles  through  life  for  whom  its 
harp-strings  vainly  quiver.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  what  does  he  not  gain  ?  He  loses  the  con- 
cord of  sweet  sounds,  but  he  is  spared  the  discord 
of  harsh  noises.  For  the  surges  of  bewildering 
harmony  and  the  depths  of  dissonant  disgust,  he 
stands  on  the  levels  of  perpetual  peace.  You  are 
distressed,  because  in  yonder  well-trained  orchestra 
a  single  voice  is  pitched  one  sixteenth  of  a  note 
too  high.  For  me,  I  lean  out  of  my  window  on 
summer  nights  enraptured  over  the  organ-man 
who  turns  poor  lost  Lilian  Dale  round  and  round 
with  his  inexorable  crank.  It  does  not  disturb  me 
that  his  organ  wheezes  and  sputters  and  grunts. 
Indeed,  there  is  for  me  absolutely  no  wheeze,  no 
sputter,  no  grunt.  I  only  see  dark  eyes  of  Italy, 
her  olive  face,  and  her  gemmed  and  lustrous  hair. 
You  mutter  maledictions  on  the  infernal  noise  and 
caterwauling.  I  hear  no  caterwauling,  but  the 
river-god  of  Arno  ripples  soft  songs  in  the  summer- 
tide  to  the  lilies  that  bend  above  him.  It  is  the 
guitar  of  the  cantatrice  that  murmurs  through  the 
scented,  dewy  air,  —  the  cantatrice  with  the  laurel 
yet  green  on  her  brow,  gliding  over  the  molten 
moonlit  water-ways  of  Venice,  and  dreamily  chim- 
ing her  well-pleased  lute  with  the  plash  of  the 
oars  of  the  gondolier.  It  is  the  chant  of  the 
flower-girl  with  large  eyes  shining  under  the  palm- 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  305 

branches  in  the  market-place  of  Milan  ;  and  with 
the  distant  echoing  notes  come  the  sweet  breath 
of  her  violets  and  the  unquenchable  odors  of  her 
crushed  geraniums  borne  on  many  a  white  sail 
from  the  glorified  Adriatic.  Bronzed  cheek  and 
swart  brow  under  my  window,  I  shall  by  and  by 
throw  you  a  paltry  nickel  cent  for  your  tropical 
dreams  ;  meanwhile  tell  me,  did  the  sun  of  Dante's 
Florence  give  your  blood  its  fierce  flow  and  the 
tawny  hue  to  your  bared  and  brawny  breast  ?  Is 
it  the  rage  of  Tasso's  madness  that  burns  in  your 
uplifted  eyes  ?  Do  you  take  shelter  from  the 
fervid  noon  under  the  cypresses  of  Monte  Mario  ? 
Will  you  meet  queenly  Marguerite  with  myrtle 
wreath  and  myrtle  fragrance,  as  she  wanders 
through  the  chestnut  vales  ?  Will  you  sleep  to- 
night between  the  colonnades  under  the  g'olden 
moon  of  Napoli  ?  Go  back,  O  child  of  the  Mid- 
land Sea  !  Go  out  from  this  cold  shore,  that  yields 
but  crabbed  harvests  for  your  threefold  vintages  of 
Italy.  Go,  suck  the  sunshine  from  Seville  oranges 
under  the  elms  of  Posilippo.  Go,  watch  the 
shadows  of  the  vines  swaying  in  the  mulberry- 
trees  from  Epomeo's  gales.  Bind  the  ivy  in  a 
triple  crown  above  Bianca's  comely  hair,  and  pipe 
not  so  wailingly  to  the  Vikings  of  this  frigid  Norse- 
land. 

But  Italy,  remember,  my  frigid  Norseland  has  a 
heart  of  fire  in  her  bosom  beneath  its  overlying 
snows,  before  which  yours  dies  like  the  white  sick 


306  CAMILLA'S   CONCERT. 

hearth-flame  before  the  noonday  sun.  Passion, 
but  not  compassion,  is  here  "  cooled  a  long  age  in 
the  deep-delved  earth."  We  lure  our  choristers 
with  honeyed  words  and  gentle  ways :  you  lay 
your  sweetest  songsters  on  the  gridiron.  Our 
orchards  ring  with  the  full-throated  happiness  of 
a  thousand  birds  :  your  pomegranate  groves  are 
silent,  and  your  miserable  cannibal  kitchens  would 
tell  the  reason  why,  if  outraged  spits  could  speak. 
Go  away,  therefore,  from  my  window,  Giuseppe  ; 
the  air  is  growing  damp  and  chilly,  and  I  do  not 
sleep  in  the  shadows  of  broken  temples. 

Yet  I  love  music ;  not  as  you  love  it,  my  friend, 
with  intelligence,  discrimination,  and  delicacy,  but 
in  a  dull,  woodeny  way,  as  the  "  gouty  oaks  "  loved 
it,  when  they  felt  in  their  fibrous  frames  the  stir  of 
Amphion's  lyre,  and  "  floundered  into  hornpipes  " ; 
as  the  gray,  stupid  rocks  loved  it,  when  they  came 
rolling  heavily  to  his  feet  to  listen  ;  in  a  great, 
coarse,  clumsy,  ichthyosaurian  way,  as  the  rivers 
loved  sad  Orpheus's  wailing  tones,  stopping  in 
their  mighty  courses,  and  the  thick-hided  hippo- 
potamus dragged  himself  up  from  the  unheeded 
pause  of  the  waves,  dimly  thrilled  with  a  vague 
ecstasy.  The  confession  is  sad,  yet  only  in  such 
beastly  fashion  come  sweetest  voices  to  me,  —  not 
in  the  fulness  of  all  their  vibrations,  but  sounding 
dimly  through  many  an  earthly  layer.  Music  I  do 
not  so  much  hear  as  feel.  All  the  exquisite  nerves 
that  bear  to  your  soul  these  tidings  of  heaven  in 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  .    307 

me  lie  torpid  or  dead.  No  beatitude  travels  to  my 
heart  over  that  road.  But  as  sometimes  an  invalid, 
unable  through  mortal  sickness  to  swallow  his 
needed  nutriment,  is  yet  kept  alive  many  days  by 
being  immersed  in  a  bath  of  wine  and  milk,  which 
somehow,  through  unwonted  courses,  penetrates  to 
the  sources  of  vitality,  —  so  I,  though  the  natural 
avenues  of  sweet  sounds  have  been  hermetically 
sealed,  do  yet  receive  the  fine  flow  of  the  musical 
ether.  I  feel  the  flood  of  harmony  pouring  around 
me.  An  inward,  palpable,  measured  tremulous- 
ness  of  the  subtile  secret  essence  of  life  attests  the 
presence  of  some  sweet  disturbing  cause,  and,  borne 
on  unseen  wings,  I  mount  to  loftier  heights  and 
diviner  airs. 

So  I  was  comforted  for  my  waxed  ears  and 
Camilla's  concert. 

There  is  one  other  advantage  in  being  possessed 
with  a  deaf-and-dumb  devil,  which,  now  that  I  am 
on  the  subject  of  compensation,  I  may  as  well 
mention.  You  are  left  out  of  the  arena  of  fierce 
discussion  and  debate.  You  do  not  enter  upon  the 
lists  wherefrom  you  would  be  sure  to"  come  off 
discomfited.  Of  all  reputations,  a  musical  rep- 
utation seems  the  most  shifting  and  uncertain ; 
and  of  all  rivalries,  musical  rivalries  are  the  most 
prolific  of  heart-burnings  and  discomfort.  Now, 
if  I  should  sing  or  play,  I  should  wish  to  sing  and 
play  well.  But  what  is  well  ?  Nancie  in  the  vil- 
lage "  singing-seats "  stands  head  and  shoulders 


308    .  -CAMILLA'S   CONCERT. 

above  the  rest,  and  wears  her  honors  tranquilly,  — 
an  authority  at  all  rehearsals  and  serenades.  But 
Anabella  comes  up  from  the  town  to  spend  Thanks- 
giving, and,  without  the  least  mitigation  or  remorse 
of  voice,  absolutely  drowns  out  poor  Nancie,  who 
goes  under,  giving  many  signs.  Yet  she  dies  not 
unavenged,  for  Harriette  sweeps  down  from  the 
city,  and  immediately  suspends  the  victorious  An- 
abella from  her  aduncate  nose,  and  carries  all 
before  her.  Mysterious  is  the  arrangement  of,  the 
world.  The  last  round  of  the  ladder  is  not  yet 
reached.  To* Madame  Morlot,  Harriette  is  a  sav- 
age, une  bete,  without  cultivation.  "  Oh,  the 
dismal  little  fright !  a  thousand  years  of  study 
would  be  useless  ;  go,  scour  the  floors ;  she  has 
positively  no  voice."  No  voice,  Madame  Morlot  ? 
Harriette,  no  voice,  —  who  burst  every  ear-drum 
in  the  room  last  night  with  her  howling  and  hoot- 
ing, and  made  the  stoutest  heart  tremble  with 
fearful  forebodings  of  what  might  come  next  ? 
But  Madame  Morlot  is  not  infallible,  for  Herr 
Driesbach  sits  shivering  at  the  dreadful  noises 
which  Madame  Morlot  extorts  from  his  sensitive 
and  suffering  piano,  and  at  the  necessity  which  lies 
upon  him  to  go  and  congratulate  her  upon  her  per- 
formance. Ah !  if  his  tortured  conscience  might 
but  congratulate  her  and  himself  upon  its  close ! 
And  so  the  scale  ascends.  Hills  on  hills  and  Alps 
on  Alps  arise,  and  who  shall  mount  the  ultimate 
peak  till  all  the  world  shall  say,  "  Here  reigns  the 


CAMILLAS  CONCERT.  309 

Excellence"  ?  I  listen  with  pleasure  to  untutored 
Nancie  till  Anabella  takes  all  the  wind  from  her 
sails.  I  think  the  force  of  music  can  no  further  go 
than  Madame  Morlot,  and,  behold,  Herr  Driesbach 
has  knocked  out  that  underpinning.  I  am  bewil- 
dered, and  I  say,  helplessly,  "  What  shall  I  admire 
and  be  a  la  mode  ?  "  But  if  it  is  so  disheartening 
to  me,  who  am  only  a  passive  listener,  what  must 
be  the  agonies  of  the  dramatis  per sonce  ?  "  Hang 
it !"  says  Charles  Lamb,  "  how  I  like  to  be  liked, 
and  what  I  do  to  be  liked !  "  And  do  Nancie, 
Harriette,  and  Herr  Driesbach  like  it  any  less  ? 
What  shall  avenge  them  for  their  spretce  injuria 
formce  ?  What  can  repay  the  hapless  performer, 
who  has  performed  her  very  best,  for  learning  by 
terrible,  indisputable  indirections  that  her  cherished 
and  boasted  Cremona  is  but  a  very  second  fiddle  ? 

So,  standing  on  the  high  ground  of  certain  im- 
munity from  criticism  and  hostile  judgment,  I  do 
not  so  much  console  myself  as  I  do  not  stand  in 
need  of  consolation.  I  rather  give  thanks  for  my 
mute  and  necessarily  unoffending  lips,  and  I  shall 
go  in  great  good-humor  to  Camilla's  concert. 

There  are  many  different  ways  of  going  to  a 
concert.  You  can  be  one  of  a  party  of  fashionable 
people  to  whom  music  is  a  diversion,  a  pastime,  an 
agreeable  change  from  the  assembly  or  the  theatre. 
They  applaud,  they  condemn,  they  criticise.  They 
know  all  about  it.  Into  such  company  as  this,  even 
I,  whose  poor  old  head  is  always  getting  itself 


310  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

wedged  in  where  it  has  no  business  to  be,  have 
chanced  to  be  thrown.  This  is  torture.  My 
cue  is  to  turn  into  the  Irishman's  echo,  which 
always  returned  for  his  "  How  d'  ye  do  ? "  a 
"  Pretty  well,  thank  you."  I  cling  to  the  skirts 
of  that  member  of  the  party  who  is  agreed  to  have 
the  best  taste  and  echo  his  responses  an  octave 
higher.  If  he  sighs  at  the  end  of  a  song,  I  bring 
out  my  pocket-handkerchief.  If  he  says  "  charm- 
ing," I  murmur  "  delicious."  If  he  thinks  it 
"  exquisite,"  I  pronounce  it  "  enchanting."  Where 
he  is  rapt  in  admiration,  I  go  into  a  trance,  and  so 
shamble  through  the  performances,  miserable  im- 
postor that  I  am,  and  ten  to  one  nobody  finds 
out  that  I  am  a  dunce,  fit  for  treason,  stratagem, 
and  spoils.  It  is  a  great  strain  upon  the  mental 
powers,  but  it  is  wonderful  to  see  how  much  may 
be  accomplished,  and  what  skill  may  be  attained, 
by  long  practice. 

Also  one  may  go  to  a  concert  as  a  conductor 
with  a  single  musical  friend.  By  conductor  I  do 
not  mean  escort,  but  a  magnetic  conductor,  rap- 
ture conductor,  a  fit  medium  through  which  to 
convey  away  his  delight,  so  that  he  shall  not  be- 
come surcharged  and  explode.  He  does  not  take 
you  for  your  pleasure,  nor  for  his  own,  but  for  use. 
He  desires  some  one  to  whom  he  can  from  time  to 
time  express  his  opinions  and  his  enthusiasm,  sure 
of  an  attentive  listener,  —  since  nothing  is  so 
pleasant  as  to  see  one's  views  welcomed.  Now 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  311 

you  cannot  pretend  that  in  such  a  case  your  listen- 
ing is  thoroughly  honest.  You  are  receptive  of 
theories,  criticisms,  and  reminiscences ;  but  vou 
would  not  like  to  be  obliged  to  pass  an  examina- 
tion on  them  afterwards.  You  do,  it  must  be 
confessed,  sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  eloquent 
dissertations,  strike  out  into  little  flowery  by-paths 
of  your  own,  quite  foreign  to  the  grand  paved- 
ways  along  which  your  friend  supposes  he  is  so 
kind  as  to  be  leading  you.  But  however  digres- 
sive your  mind  may  be,  do  not  suffer  your  eyes  to 
digress.  Whatever  may  be  the  intensity  of  your 
ennui,  endeavor  to  preserve  an  animated  expres- 
sion, and  your  success  is  complete.  This  is  all 
that  is  necessary.  You  will  never  be  called  upon 
for  notes  or  comments.  Your  little  escapades  will 
never  be  detected.  It  is  not  your  opinions  that 
were  sought,  nor  your  education  that  was  to  be 
furthered.  You  were  only  an  escape-pipe,  and 
your  mission  ceased  when  the  soul  of  song  fled 
and  the  gas  was  turned  off.  This,  too,  is  all  that 
can  justly  be  demanded.  Minister,  lecturer,  sing- 
er, no  one  has  any  right  to  ask  of  his  audience 
anything  more  than  opportunity,  —  the  externals 
of  attention.  All  the  rest  is  his  own  look-out. 
If  you  prepossess  your  mind  with  a  theme,  you  do 
not  give  him  an  even  chance.  You  must  offer 
him  in  the  beginning  a  tabula  rasa,  —  a  fair  field, 
and  then  it  is  his  business  to  go  in  and  win  your 
attention ;  and  if  he  cannot,  let  him  pay  the  costs, 
for  the  fault  is  his  own. 


312  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

This  also  is  torture,  but  its  name  is  Zoar,  a  lit- 
tle one. 

There  is  yet  another  way.  You  may  go  with 
one  or  many  who  believe  in  individuality.  They 
go  to  the  concert  for  love  of  music,  —  negatively 
for  its  rest  and  refreshment,  positively  for  its  em- 
bodied delights.  They  take  you  for  your  enjoy- 
ment, which  they  permit  you  to  compass  after  your 
own  fashion.  They  force  from  you  no  comment. 
They  demand  no  criticism.  They  do  not  require 
censure  as  your  certificate  of  taste.  They  do  not 
trouble  themselves  with  your  demeanor.  If  you 
choose  to  talk  in  the  pauses,  they  are  receptive 
and  cordial.  If  you  choose  to  be  silent,  it  is  just 
as  well.  If  you  go  to  sleep,  they  will  not  mind,  — 
unless,  under  the  spell  of  the  genius  of  the  place, 
your  sleep  becomes  vocal,  and  you  involuntarily 
join  the  concert  in  the  undesirable  rdle  of  De  Trop. 
If  you  go  into  raptures,  it  is  all  the  same ;  you 
are  not  watched  and  made  a  note  of.  They  leave 
you  at  the  top  of  your  bent.  Whether  you  shall 
be  amused,  delighted,  or  disgusted,  they  respect 
your  decisions  and  allow  you  to  remain  free. 

How  did  I  go  to  my  concert  ?  Can  I  tell  for 
the  eyes  that  made  "a  sunshine  in  the  shady 
place"?  Was  I  not  veiled  with  the  beautiful  hair, 
and  blinded  with  the  lily's  white  splendor  ?  So 
went  I  with  the  Fairy  Queen  in  her  golden  coach 
drawn  by  six  white  mice,  and,  behold,  I  was  in 
Camilla's  concert-room. 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  313 

It  is  to  be  a  fiddle  affair.  Now  I  am  free  to 
say,  if  there  is  anything  I  hate,  it  is  a  fiddle. 
Hide  it  away  under  as  many  Italian  coatings  as 
you  choose,  viol,  violin,  viola,  violone,  violoncello, 
violoncellettissimo,  at  bottom  it  is  all  one,  a  fiddle ; 
in  its  best  estate,  a  whirligig,  without  dignity,  senti- 
ment, or  power ;  and  at  worst  a  rubbing,  rasping, 
squeaking,  woolleny,  noisy  nuisance,  that  it  sets 
my  teeth  on  edge  to  think  of.  I  shudder  at  the 
mere  memory  of  the  reluctant  bow  dragging  its 
slow  length  across  the  whining  strings.  And  here 
I  am,  in  my  sober  senses,  come  to  hear  a  fiddle ! 

But  it  is  Camilla's.  Do  you  remember  a  little 
girl  who,  a  few  years  ago,  became  famous  for  her 
wonderful  performance  on  the  violin  ?  At  six 
years  of  age  she  went  to  a  great  concert,  and  of  all 
the  fine  instruments  there,  the  unseen  spirit  within 
her  made  choice,  "  Papa,  I  should  like  to  learn  the 
violin."  So  she  learned  it  and  loved  it,  and  when 
ten  years  old  delighted  foreign  and  American  au- 
diences with  her  marvellous  genius.  It  was  the 
little  Camilla  who  now,  after  ten  years  of  silence, 
tuned  her  beloved  instrument  once  more. 

As  she  walks  softly  and  quietly  in,  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  disappointment.  I  had  unwittingly 
framed  for  her  an  a?sthetic  violin,  with  the  essen- 
tial strings  and  bridge  and  bow  indeed,  but  sub- 
merged and  forgot  in  such  Orient  splendors  as 
befit  her  glorious  genius.  Barbaric  pearl  and 
gold,  finest  carved  work,  flashing  gems  from  In- 

14 


314  CAMILLA'S   CONCERT. 

dian  watercourses,  the  delicatest  pink  sea-shell,  a 
bubble-prism  caught  and  crystallized,  —  of  all  rare 
and  curious  substances  wrought  with  dainty  de- 
vice, fantastic  as  a  dream,  and  resplendent  as  the 
light,  should  her  instrument  be  fashioned.  Only 
in  "  something  rich  and  strange  "  should  the  mys- 
tic soul  lie  sleeping  for  whom  her  lips  shall  break 
the  spell  of  slumber,  and  her  young  fingers  unbar 
the  sacred  gates.  And,  oh  me !  it  is,  after  all, 
the  very  same  old  red  fiddle !  Dee,  dee ! 

But  she  neither  glides  nor  trips  nor  treads,  as 
heroines,  invariably  do,  but  walks  in  like  a  good 
Christian  woman.  She  steps  upon  the  stage  and 
faces  the  audience  that  gives  her  hearty  greeting 
and  waits  the  prelude.  There  is  time  for  cool  sur- 
vey. I  am  angry  still  about  the  red  fiddle,  and  I 
look  scrutinizingly  at  her  dress,  and  think  how  ugly 
is  the  mode.  The  skirt  is  white  silk,  —  a  brocade, 
I  believe,  —  at  any  rate,  stiff,  and,  though  probably 
full  to  overflowing  in  the  hands  of  the  seamstress, 
who  must  compress  it  within  prescribed  limits 
about  the  waist,  looks  scanty  and  straight.  Why 
should  she  not,  she  who  comes  before  us  to-night, 
not  as  a  fashion,  but  an  inspiration, —  why  should 
she  not  assume  that  immortal  classic  drapery  whose 
graceful  falls  and  folds  the  sculptor  vainly  tries  to 
imitate,  the  painter  vainly  seeks  fo  limn  ?  When 
Corinne  tuned  her  lyre  at  the  Capitol,  when  she 
knelt  to  be  crowned  with  her  laurel  crown  at  the 
hands  of  a  Roman  senator,  is  it  possible  to  conceive 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  315 

her  swollen  out  with  crinoline?  And  yet  I  re- 
member, that,  though  set  robe  £tait  blanche,  et  son 
costume  etait  tres  pittoresque,  it  was  sans  s'ecarter 
cependant  assez  des  usages  repus  pour  gue  Ton  put  y 
trouver  de  V affectation  ;  and  I  suppose,  if  one  should 
now  suddenly  collapse  from  conventional  rotundity 
to  antique  statuesqueness,  the  great  "  on  "  would 
very  readily  "  y  trouver  de  V affectation."  Never- 
theless, though  one  must  dress  in  Rome  as  Romans 
do,  and  though  the  Roman  way  of  dressing  is, 
taking  all  things  into  the  account,  as  good  as  any, 
and,  if  not  more  graceful,  a  thousand  times  more 
convenient,  wholesome,  comfortable,  and  manage- 
able than  Helen's,  still  it  does  seem  that,  when 
one  steps  out  of  the  ordinary  area  of  Roman  life 
and  assumes  an  abnormal  position,  one  might, 
without  violence,  assume  temporarily  an  abnormal 
dress,  and  refresh  our  dilated  eyes  once  more  with 
flowing,  wavy  outlines.  Music  is  one  of  the  eter- 
nities :  why  should  not  its  accessories  be  ?  Why 
should  a  discord  disturb  the  eye,  when  only  con- 
cords delight  the  ear  ? 

But  I  lift  my  eyes  from  Camilla's  unpliant 
drapery  to  the  red  red  rose  in  her  hair,  and  thence, 
naturally,  to  her  silent  face,  and  in  that  instant 
ugly  dress  and  red  red  rose  fade  out  of  my  sight. 
What  is  it  that  I  see,  with  tearful  tenderness  and 
a  nameless  pain  at  the  heart  ?  A  young  face  deep- 
ened and  drawn  with  suffering  ;  dark,  large  eyes, 
whose  natural  laughing  light  has  been  quenched 


316  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

in  tears,  yet  shining  still  with  a  distant  gleam 
caught  from  the  eternal  fires.  O  still,  pathetic 
face !  A  sterner  form  than  Time  has  passed  and 
left  his  vestige  there.  Happy  little  girl,  playing 
among  the  flickering  shadows  of  the  Rhine-land, 
who  could  not  foresee  the  darker  shadows  that 
should  settle  and  never  lift  nor  flicker  from  her 
heavy  heart?  Large,  lambent  eyes,  that  might 
have  been  sweet,  but  now  are  only  steadfast, — 
that  may  yet  be  sweet,  when  they  look  to-night 
into  a  baby's  cradle,  but  gazing  now  upon  a  wait- 
ing audience,  are  only  steadfast.  Ah  !  so  it  is. 
Life  has  such  hard  conditions,  that  every  dear 
and  precious  gift,  every  rare  virtue,  every  pleas- 
ant facility,  every  genial  endowment,  love,  hope, 
joy,  wit,  sprigh'tliness,  benevolence,  must  some- 
times be  cast  into  the  crucible  to  distil  the  one 
elixir,  patience.  Large,  lambent  eyes,  in  which 
days  and  nights  of  tears  are  petrified,  steadfast 
eyes  that  are  neither  mournful  nor  hopeful  nor 
anxious,  but  with  such  unvoiced  sadness  in  their 
depths  that  the  hot  tears  well  up  in  my  heart, 
what  do  you  see  in  the  waiting  audience?  Not 
censure,  nor  pity,  nor  forgiveness,  for  you  do  not 
need  them,  —  but  surely  a  warm  human  sympa- 
thy, since  heart  can  speak  to  heart,  though  the 
thin,  fixed  lips  have  sealed  their  secret  well.  Sad 
mother,  whose  rose  of  life  was  crushed  before  it 
had  budded,  tender  young  lips  that  had  drunk 
the  cup  of  sorrow  to  the  dregs,  while  their  cup  of 


CAMILLA'S  CONCERT.  317 

bliss  should  hardly  yet  be  brimmed  for  life's  sweet 
spring-time,  your  crumbling  fanes  and  broken 
arches  and  prostrate  columns  lie  not  among  the 
ruins  of  Time.  Be  comforted  of  that.  They 
bear  witness  of  a  more  pitiless  Destroyer,  and  by 
this  token  I  know  there  shall  dawn  a  brighter  day. 
The  God  of  the  fatherless  and  the  widow,  of  the 
worse  than  widowed  and  fatherless,  the  Avenger 
of  the  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents,  be  with  you, 
and  shield  and  shelter  and  bless ! 

But  the  overture  wavers  to  its  close,  and  her 
soul  hears  far  off  the  voice  of  the  coming  Spirit. 
A  deeper  light  shines  in  the  strangely  introverted 
eyes,  —  the  look  as  of  one  listening  intently  to 
a  distant  melody  which  no  one  else  can  hear, — 
the  look  of  one  to  whom  the  room  and  the  people 
and  the  presence  are  but  a  dream,  and  past  and 
future  centre  on  the  far-off  song.  Slowly  she 
raises  her  instrument.  I  almost  shudder  to  see 
the  tawny  wood  touching  her  white  shoulder;' 
yet  that  cannot  be  common  or  unclean  which  she 
so  loves  and  carries  with  almost  a  caress.  Still 
intent,  she  raises  the  bow  with  a  slow  sweep,  as 
if  it  were  a  wand  of  divination.  Nearer  and 
nearer  comes  the  heavenly  voice,  pouring  around 
her  a  flood  of  mystic  melody.  And  now  at  last 
it  breaks  upon  our  ears,  —  softly  at  first,  only  a 
sweet  faint  echo  from  that  other  sphere,  but  deep- 
ening, strengthening,  conquering,  —  now  rising  on 
the  swells  of  a  controlling  passion,  now  sinking 


318  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

into  the  depths  with  its  low  wail  of  pain  ;  exul- 
tant, scornful,  furious,  in  the  glad  outburst  of 
opening  joy  and  the  fierce  onslaught  of  strength ; 
crowned,  sceptred,  glorious  in  garland  and  sing- 
ing-robes, throned  in  the  high  realms  of  its  in- 
heritance, a  kingdom  of  boundless  scope  and  ever 
new  delights  :  then  sweeping  down  through  the 
lower  world  with'  diminishing  rapture,  rapture 
lessening  into  astonishment,  astonishment  dying 
into  despair,  it  gathers  up  the  passion  and  the 
pain,  the  blight  and  woe  and  agony ;  all  garnered 
joys  are  scattered.  Evil  supplants  the  good.  Hope 
dies,  love  pales,  and  faith  is  faint  and  wan.  But 
every  death  has  its  moaning  ghost,  pale  spectre 
of  vanished  loves.  Oh,  fearful  revenge  of  the 
outraged  soul !  The  mysterious,  uncomprehend- 
ed,  incomprehensible  soul  I  The  irrepressible,  un- 
quenchable, immortal  soul,  whose  every  mark  is 
everlasting !  Every  secret  sin  committed  against 
it  cries  out  from  the  house-tops.  Cunning  may 
strive  to  conceal,  will  may  determine  to  smother, 
love  may  fondly  whisper,  "  It  does  not  hurt " ; 
but  the  soul  will  not  be  outraged.  Somewhere, 
somehow,  when  and  where  you  least  expect,  un- 
conscious, perhaps,  to  its  owner,  unrecognized  by 
the  many,  visible  only  to  the  clear  vision,  some- 
where, somehow,  the  soul  bursts  asunder  its  bonds. 
It  is  but  a  little  song,  a  tripping  of  the  fingers 
over  the  keys,  a  drawing  of  the  bow  across  the 
strings,  —  only  that !  Only  that  ?  It  is  the  pro- 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  319 

test  of  the  wronged  and  ignored  soul.  It  is  the 
outburst  of  the  pent  and  prisoned  soul.  All  the 
ache  and  agony,  all  the  secret  wrong  and  silent 
endurance,  all  the  rejected  love  and  wounded 
trust  and  slighted  truth,  all  the  riches  wasted,  all 
the  youth  poisoned,  ah1  the  hope  trampled,  all  the 
light  darkened,  —  all  meet  and  mingle  in  a  mad 
whirl  of  waters.  They  surge  and  lash  and  rage, 
a  wild  storm  of  harmony.  Barriers  are  broken. 
Circumstance  is  not.  The  soul !  the  soul !  the 
soul !  the  wronged  and  fettered  soul !  the  freed 
and  royal  soul !  It  alone  is  king.  Lift  up  your 
heads,  O  ye  gates,  and  be  ye  lift  up,  ye  everlasting 
doors,  and  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in ! 
Tremble,  O  Tyrant,  in  your  mountain-fastness ! 
Tremble,  Deceiver,  in  your  cavern  under  the 
sea!  Your  victim  is  your  accuser.  Your  sin  has 
found  you  out.  Your  crime  cries  to  Heaven. 
You  have  condemned  and  killed  the  just.  You 
have  murdered  the  innocent  in  secret  places,  and 
in  the  noonday  sun  the  voice  of  their  blood  crieth 
unto  God  from  the  ground.  There  is  no  speech 
nor  language.  There  is  no  will  nor  design.  The 
seal  of  silence  is  unbroken.  But  unconscious,  en- 
tranced, .inspired,  the  god  has  lashed  his  Sibyl  on. 
The  vital  instinct  of  the  soul,  its-  heaven-born, 
up-springing  life,  flings  back  the  silver  veil,  and 
reveals  the  hidden  things  to  him  who  hath  eyes 
to  see. 

The  storm  sobs  and  soothes  itself  to  silence. 


320  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

There  is  a  hush,  and  then  an  enthusiasm  of  de- 
light. The  small  head  slightly  bows,  the  still  face 
scarcely  smiles,  the  slight  form  disappears,  —  and 
after  all,  it  was  only  a  fiddle. 

"  When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young," 
begins  the  ode  ;  but  Music,  heavenly  maid,  seems 
to  me  still  so  young,  so  very  young,  as  scarcely  to 
have  made  her  power  felt.  Her  language  is  as 
yet  unlearned.  When  a  baby  of  a  month  is 
hungry  or  in  pain,  he  contrives  to  make  the  fact 
understood.  If  he  is  at  peace  with  himself  and 
his  surroundings,  he  leaves  no  doubt  on  the  sub- 
ject. To  precisely  this  degree  of  intelligibility  has 
the  Heavenly  Maid  attained  among  us.  When 
Beethoven  sat  down  to  the  composition  of  one  of 
his  grand  harmonies,  there  was  undoubtedly  in  his 
mind  as  distinct  a  conception  of  that  which  he 
wished  to  express,  of  that  within  him  which  clam- 
ored for  expression,  as  ever  rises  before  a  painter's 
eye,  or  sings  in  a  poet's  brain.  Thought,  emotion, 
passion,  hope,  fear,  joy,  sorrow,  each  had  its  life 
and  law.  The  painter  paints  you  this.  This  the 
poet  sings  you.  You  stand  before  a  picture,  and 
to  your  loving,  searching  gaze  its  truths  unfold. 
You  read  the  poem  with  the  understanding,  and 
catch  its  concealed  meanings.  But  what  do  you 
know  of  what  was  in  Beethoven's  soul  ?  Who 
grasps  his  conception  ?  Who  faithfully  renders, 
•who  even  thoroughly  knows  his  idea  ?  Here  and 
there  to  some  patient  night-watcher  the  lofty  gates 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  321 

are  unbarred,  "  on  golden  hinges  turning."  But, 
for  the  greater  part,  the  musician  who  would  tell 
so  much  speaks  to  unheeding  ears.  We  compre- 
hend him  but  infinitesimally.  It  is  the  Battle  of 
Prague.  Adrianus  sits  down  to  the  piano,  and 
Dion  stands  by  his  side,  music-sheet  in  hand,  act- 
ing as  showman.  "  The  cannon,"  says  Dion,  at 
the  proper  place,  and  you  imagine  you  recognize 
reverberation.  "  Charge,"  continues  Dion,  and 
with  a  violent  effort  you  fancy  the  ground  trem- 
bles. "  Groans  of  the  wounded,"  and  you  are 
partly  horror-struck  and  partly  incredulous.  But 
what  lame  representation  is  this  !  As  if  one  should 
tie  a  paper  around  the  ankle  of  the  Belvedere 
Apollo,  with  the  inscription,  "  This  is  the  ankle." 
A  collar  declares,  "  This  is  the  neck."  A  bandeau 
locates  his  "  forehead."  A  bracelet  indicates  the 
"  arm."  Is  the  sculpture  thus  significant  ?  Hardly 
more  does  our  music  yet  signify  to  us.  You  hear 
an  unfamiliar  air.  You  like  it  or  dislike  it,  or  are 
indifferent.  You  can  tell  that  it  is  slow  and  plain- 
tive, or  brisk  and  lively,  or  perhaps  even  that  it  is 
defiant  or  stirring  ;  but  how  insensible  you  are  to 
the  delicate  shades  of  its  meaning  !  How  hidden 
is  the  song  in  the  heart  of  the  composer  till  he 
gives  you  the  key !  You  hear  as  though  you 
heard  not.  You  hear  the  thunder,  and  the  cata- 
ract, and  the  crash  of  the  avalanche ;  but  the  song 
of  the  nightingale,  the  chirp  of  the  katydid,  the 
murmur  of  the  waterfall  never  reach  you.  This 
u*  c 


322  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

cannot  be  the  ultimatum.  Music  must  hold  in 
its  own  bosom  its  own  interpretation,  and  man 
must  have  in  his  its  corresponding  susceptibilities. 
Music  is  language,  and  language  implies  a  people 
who  employ  and  understand  it.  But  music,  even 
by  its  professor,  is  as  yet  faintly  understood.  Its 
meanings  go  on  crutches.  They  must  be  helped 
out  by  words.  What  does  this  piece  say  to  you  ? 
Interpret  it.  You  cannot.  You  must  be  taught 
much  before  you  can  know  all.  It  must  be  trans- 
lated from  music  into  speech  before  you  can  en- 
tirely assimilate  it.  Musicians  do  not  trust  alone 
to  notes  for  moods.  Their  light  shines  only 
through  a  glass  darkly.  But  in  some  other  sphere, 
in  some  happier  time,  in  a  world  where  gross 
wants  shall  have  disappeared,  and  therefore  the 
grossness  of  words  shall  be  no  longer  necessary, 
where  hunger  and  thirst  and  cold  and  care  and 
passion  have  no  more  admittance,  and  only  love 
and  faith  and  hope  and  admiration  and  aspiration 
shall  crave  utterance,  in  that  blessed  unseen  world 
shall  not  music  be  the  every-day  speech,  convey- 
ing meaning  not  only  with  a  sweetness,  but  with 
an  accuracy,  delicacy,  and  distinctness,  of  which 
we  have  now  but  a  faint  conception?  Here  words 
are  not  only  rough,  but  ambiguous.  There  har- 
monies shall  be  minutely  intelligible.  Speak  with 
what  directness  we  can,  be  as  explanatory,  em- 
phatic, illustrative  as  we  may,  there  are  mistakes, 
misunderstandings,  many  and  grievous,  and  con- 


CAMILLA'S  CONCERT.  323 

sequent  missteps  and  catastrophes.  But  in  that 
other  world  language  shall  be  exactly  coexistent 
with  life ;  music  shall  be  precisely  adequate  to 
meaning.  There  shall  be  no  hidden  corners,  no 
bungling  incompatibilities,  but  the  searching  sound 
penetrates  into  the  secret  sources  of  the  soul,  all- 
pervading.  Not  a  nook,  not  a  crevice,  no  maze 
so  intricate,  but  the  sound  floats  in  to  gather  up 
the  fragrant  aroma,  to  bear  it  yonder  to  another 
waiting  soul,  and  deposit  it  as  deftly  by  unerring 
magnetisms  in  the  corresponding  clefts. 

Toot  away,  then,  fifer-fellow !  Turn  your  slow 
crank,  inexorable  Italian !  Thrum  your  thrums, 
Miss  Laura,  for  Signer  Bernadotti !  You  are  a 
long  way  off,  but  your  footprints  point  the  right 
way.  With  many  a  yawn  and  sigh  subjective, 
with,  I  greatly  fear  me,  many  a  malediction  objec- 
tive, you  are  "  learning  the  language  of  another 
world."  To  us,  huddled  together  in  our  little 
ant-hill,  one  is  "  une  bete"  and  one  is  "  mon 
ange  " ;  but  from  that  fixed  star  we  are  all  so  far 
as  to  have  no  parallax. 

But  I  come  down  from  the  golden  stars,  for  the 
white-robed  one  has  raised  her  wand  again,  and 
we  float  away  through  the  glowing  gates  of  the 
sunrise,  over  the  purple  waves,  over  the  vine-lands 
of  sunny  France,  in  among  the  shadows  of  the 
storied  Pyrenees.  Sorrow  and  sighing  have  fled 
away.  Tragedy  no  longer  "  in  sceptred  pall 
comes  sweeping  by "  ;  but  young  lambs  leap  in 


324  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

wild  frolic,  silken-fleeced  sheep  lie  on  the  slopes 
of  the  hills,  and  shepherd  calls  to  shepherd  from 
his  mountain-peak.  Peaceful  hamlets  lie  far  clown 
the  valley,  and  every  gentle  height  blooms  with 
a  happy  home.  Dark-eyed  Basque  girls  dance 
through  the  fruitful  orchards.  I  see  the  gleam 
of  their  scarlet  scarfs  wound  in  with  their  bold 
black  hair.  I  hear  their  rich  voices  trilling  the 
lays  of  their  land,  and  ringing  with  happy  laugh- 
ter. But  I  mount  higher  and  yet  higher,  till 
gleam  and  voice  are  lost.  Here  the  freshening 
air  sweeps  down,  and  the  low  gurgle  of  living 
water  purling  out  from  cool,  dark  chasms,  mingles 
with  the  shepherd's  flute.  Here  the  young  shep- 
herd himself  climbs,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock, 
supple,  strong,  brave,  and  free  as  the  soul  of 
his  race,  —  the  same  iron  in  his  sinews,  and  the 
same  fire  in  his  blood  that  dealt  the  "  dolorous 
rout "  to  Charlemagne  a  thousand  years  ago. 
Sweetly  across  the  path  of  Roncesvalles  blow  th? 
evening  gales,  wafting  tender  messages  to  the 
listening  girls  below.  Green  grows  the  grass  and 
gay  the  flowers  that  spring  from  the  blood  of 
princely  paladins,  the  flower  of  chivalry.  No 
bugle-blast  can  bring  old  Roland  back,  though  it 
wind  long  and  loud  through  the  echoing  woods. 
Lads  and  lasses,  worthy  scions  of  valiant  stems, 
may  sit  on  happy  evenings  in  the  shadow  of  the 
vines,  or  group  themselves  on  the  greensward  in 
the  pauses  of  the  dance,  and  sing  then?  songs  of 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  325 

battle  and  victory,  —  the  olden  legends  of  their 
heroic  sires ;  but  the  strain  that  floats  down  from 
the  darkening  slopes  into  their  heart  of  hearts,  the 
song  that  reddens  in  their  glowing  cheeks,  and 
throbs  in  their  throbbing  breasts,  and  shines  in 
their  dewy  eyes,  is  not  the  shock  of  deadly  onset, 
glorious  though  it  be.  It  is  the  sweet  old  song,  — 
old,  yet  ever  new,  —  whose  burden  is, 

"  Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love,"  — 
old,  yet  always  new,  —  sweet  and  tender,  and  not 
to  be  gainsaid,  whether  it  be  piped  to  a  shepherd- 
ess in  Arcadia,  or  whether  a  princess  hears  it  from 
princely  lips  in  her  palace  on  the  sea. 

But  the  mountain  shadows  stretch  down  the 
valleys  and  wrap  the  meadows  in  twilight.  Far- 
ther and  farther  the  notes  recede  as  the  flutesman 
gathers  his  quiet  flock  along  the  winding  paths. 
Smooth  and  far  in  the  tranquil  evening-air  fall  the 
receding  notes,  a  clear,  silvery  sweetness ;  farther 
and  farther  in  the  hushed  evening  air,  lessening 
and  lowering,  as  you  bend  to  listen,  till  the  vanish- 
ing strain  just  cleaves,  a  single  thread  of  pearl-pure 
melody,  finer,  finer,  finer,  through  the  dewy  twi- 
light, and  —  you  hear  only  your  own  heart-beats. 
It  is  not  dead,  but  risen.  It  never  ceased.  It 
knew  no  pause.  It  has  gone  up  the  heights  to 
mingle  with  the  songs  of  the  angels.  You  rouse 
yourself  with  a  start,  and  gaze  at  your  neighbor 
half  bewildered.  What  is  it?  Where  are  we? 
Oh,  my  remorseful  heart !  There  is  no  shepherd, 


326  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

no  mountain,  no  girl  with  scarlet  ribbon  and  black 
braids  bound  on  her  beautiful  temples.  It  was 
only  a  fiddle  on  a  platform! 

Now  you  need  not  tell  me  that.  I  know  better. 
I  have  lived  among  fiddles  all  my  life,  —  embry- 
otic,  Silurian  fiddles,  splintered  from  cornstalks, 
that  blessed  me  in  the  golden  afternoons  of  green 
summers  waving  in  the  sunshine  of  long  ago,  — 
sympathetic  fiddles  that  did  me  yeomen's  service 
once,  when  I  fell  off  a  bag  of  corn  up  garret  and 
broke  my  head,  and  the  frightened  fiddles,  not 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  came  and  fiddled  to  me 
lying  on  the  settee,  with  such  boundless,  extrava- 
gant flourish  that  nobody  heard  the  doctor's  gig 
rolling  by,  and  so  sinciput  and  occiput  were  left 
overnight  to  compose  their  own  quarrels,  whereby 
I  was  naturally  all  right  before  the  doctor  had  a 
chance  at  me,  suffering  only  the  slight  disadvan- 
tage of  going  broken-headed  through  life.  What 
I  might  have  been  with  a  whole  skull,  I  don't 
know  ;  but  I  will  say,  that,  good  or  bad,  and  even 
in  fragments,  my  head  is  the  best  part  of  me. 

Yes,  I  think  I  may  dare  affirm  that  whatever 
there  is  to  know  about  a  fiddle  I  know,  and  I  can 
give  my  affidavit  that  it  is  no  fiddle  that  takes  you 
up  on  its  broad  wings,  outstripping  the  "  wondrous 
horse  of  brass,"  which  required 

"  the  space  of  a  day  natural, 
This  is  to  sayn,  four  and  twenty  houres, 
Wher  so  you  list,  in  drought  or  elles  showres,N 


CAMILLA'S  CONCERT.  327 

To  beren  your  body  into  every  place 
To  which  your  herte  willeth  for  to  pace, 
Withouten  wemme  of  you,  thurgh  foule  or  faire,"  — 

since  it  bears  you,  "  withouten  "  even  so  much  as 
your  "  herte's  "  will,  in  a  moment's  time,  over  the 
seas  and  above  the  stars. 

A  fiddle,  is  it  ?  Do  not  for  one  moment  believe 
it.  —  A  poet  walked  through  Southern  woods,  and 
the  Dryads  opened  their  hearts  to  him.  They 
unfolded  the  secrets  that  dwell  in  the  depths  of 
forests.  They  sang  to  him  under  the  starlight  the 
songs  of  their  green,  rustling  land.  They  whis- 
pered the  loves  of  the  trees  sentient  to  poets :  — 

"  The  sayling  pine ;  the  cedar,  proud  and  tall ; 
The  vine-propt  elme;  the  poplar,  never  dry; 
The  builder  oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all; 
The  aspine,  good  for  staves ;  the  cypresse  funerall  5 
The  lawrell,  meed  of  mightie  conquerours 
And  poets  sage;  the  firre,  that  weepeth  stille; 
The  willow,  worne  of  forlorne  paramours ; 
The  eugh,  obedient  to  the  benders  will ; 
The  birch,  for  shaftes;  the  sallow,  for  the  mill; 
The  mirrhe,  sweete-bleeding  in  the  bitter  wounde; 
The  warlike  beech;  the  ash,  for  nothing  ill; 
The  fruitful  olive ;  and  the  platane  round ; 
The  carver  holme ;  the  maple,  seldom  inward  sound." 

They  sang  to  him  with  their  lutes.  They  danced 
before  him  with  sunny,  subtile  grace,  wreathing 
him  with  strange  loveliness.  They  brought  him 
honey  and  wine  in  the  wmte  cups  of  lilies,  till 
his  brain  was  drunk  with  delight ;  and  they  kept 
watch  by  his  moss  pillow,  while  he  slept. 


328  CAMILLA'S  CONCERT. 

In  the  dew  of  the  morning,  he  arose  and  felled 
the  kindly  tree  that  had  sheltered  him,  not  know- 
ing it  was  the  home  of  Arborine,  fairest  of  the 
wood-nymphs.  But  he  did  it  not  for  cruelty,  but 
tenderness,  to  carve  a  memorial  of  his  most  mem- 
orable night,  and  so  pulled  down  no  thunders  on 
his  head.  For  Arborine  loved  him,  and,  like  her 
sister  Undine  in  the  North,  found  her  soul  in 
loving  him.  Unseen,  the  beautiful  nymph  guided 
his  hand  as  he  fashioned  the  sounding  viol,  not 
knowing  he  was  fashioning  a  palace  for  a  soul 
new-born.  He  wrought  skilfully,  strung  the  in- 
tense chords,  and  smote  them  with  the  sympa- 
thetic bow.  What  burst  of  music  flooded  the  still 
air  !  What  new  song  trembled  among  the  mer- 
maiden  tresses  of  the  oaks !  What  new  presence 
quivered  in  every  listening  harebell  and  every 
fearful  windflower  ?  The  forest  felt  a  change, 
for  tricksy  nymph  had  proved  a  mortal  love,  and 
put  off  her  fairy  phantasms  for  the  deep  conscious- 
ness of  humanity.  The  wood  heard,  bewildered. 
A  shudder  as  of  sorrow  thrilled  through  it.  A 
breeze  that  was  almost  sad  swept  down  the  shady 
aisles  as  the  Poet  passed  out  into  the  sunshine  and 
the  world. 

But  Nature  knows  no  pain,  though  Arborines 
appear  never  more.  A  balm  springs  up  in  every 
wound.  Over  the  hills,  and  far  away  beyond  their 
utmost  purple  rim,  and  deep  into  the  dying  day, 
the  happy  love-born  one  followed  her  love,  happy 


CAMILLA'S   CONCERT.  329 

to  exchange  her  sylvan  immortality  for  the  spasm 
of  mortal  life,  —  happy,  in  her  human  self-abnega- 
tion, to  lie  close  on  his  heart  and  whisper  close  in 
his  ear,  though  he  knew  only  the  loving  voice  and 
never  the  loving  lips.  Through  the  world  they 
passed,  the  Poet  and  his  mystic  viol.  It  gathered 
to  itself  the  melodies  that  fluttered  over  sea  and 
land,  —  songs  of  the  mountains,  and  songs ,  of  the 
valleys,  —  murmurs  of  love,  and  the  trumpet-tones 
of  war,  —  bugle-blast  of  huntsman  on  the  track 
of  the  chamois,-  and  mother's  lullaby  to  the  baby 
at  her  breast.  All  that  earth  had  of  sweetness  the 
nymph  drew  into  her  viol-home,  and  poured  it 
forth  anew  in  strains  of  more  than  mortal  har- 
mony. The  fire  and  fervor  of  human  hearts,  the 
quiet  ripple  of  inland  waters,  the  anthem  of  the 
stormy  sea,  the  voices  of  the  flowers  and  the  birds, 
lent  their  melody  to  the  song  of  her  who  knew 
them  all. 

The  Poet  died.  Died,  too,  sweet  Arborine, 
swooning  away  in  the  fierce  grasp  of  this  stranger 
Sorrow,  to  enter  by  the  black  gate  of  death  into 
the  full  presence  and  recognition  of  him  by  loving 
whom  she  had  learned  to  be. 

The  viol  passed  into  strange  hands,  and  wan- 
dered down  the  centuries,  but  its  olden  echoes 
linger  still.  Fragrance  of  Southern  woods,  cool- 
ness of  shaded  waters,  inspiration  of  mountain- 
breezes,  all  the  secret  forces  of  Nature  that  the 
wood-nymph  knew,  and  the  joy,  the  passion,  and' 


330  CAMILLA'S   CONCERT. 

the  pain  that  throb  only  in  a  woman's  heart,  lie 
still,  silent  under  the  silent  strings,  but  wakening 
into  life  at  the  touch  of  a  royal  hand. 

Do  you  not  believe  my  story  ?    But  I  have  seen 
the  viol  and  the  royal  hand  ! 


CHERI. 
I 


CH 


ERI. 


HERI  is  the  Canary-bird,  —  a  yellow 
bird  with  a  white  tail,  when  the  cat 
I  ;U-  Aj'j    leaves  him  any  tail  at  all.     He  came 
^iJii   as   a  gjft^   an(J  I  welcomed  him,  but 


m 


without  gratitude.  For  a  gift  is  nothing.  Al- 
ways behind  the  gift  stands  the  giver,  and  under 
the  gift  lies  the  motive.  The  gift  itself  has  no 
character.  It  may  be  a  blunder,  a  bribe,  an  offer- 
ing, according  to  the  nature  and  design  of  the 
giver  ;  and  you  are  outraged,  or  magnanimous,  or 
grateful.  Cheri  came  to  me  with  no  love-token 
under  his  soft  wings,  —  only  the  "  good  riddance  " 
of  his  heartless  master.  Those  little  black  eyes  had 
twinkled,  those  shining  silken  feathers  had  gleamed, 
that  round  throat  had  waved  with  melody  in  vain. 
He  had  worn  his  welcome  out.  Even  the  virtues 
which  should  have  throbbed,  tender  and  all-em- 
bracing, under  priestly  vestments,  had  no  tender- 
ness, no  embrace  for  him,  —  only  a  mockery  and 
a  prophecy,  a  cold  and  cynical  prediction  that  I 


334  CHERL 

should  soon  tire  of  his  shrill  voice.  Yes,  Cheri, 
your  sweet  silver  trills,  your  rippling  June-brook 
warbles,  were  to  him  only  a  shrew's  scolding. 
I  took  the  bird  wrathfully,  his  name  had  been 
Cherry,  and  rechristened  him  on  the  spot  Cheri, 
in  anticipation  of  the  new  life  that  was  to  dawn 
upon  him,  no  longer  despised  Cherry,  but  Cheri, 
my  cherished  one. 

He  has  been  with  me  now  nearly  a  year,  and 
every  trick  of  his  voice  and  head  and  tail  is  just 
as  fresh,  graceful,  and  charming  as  on  the  first  day 
of  his  arrival.  He  is  a  constant  recreation  and 
delight.  I  put  him  in  my  own  room,  and  went 
up  to  look  at  him  two  or  three  times  the  first 
evening.  Every  time  I  looked  he  would  be  quite 
still,  but  his  little  black  beads  of  eyes  shone  wide 
open  in  the  candle-light,  and  I  recalled  how 
Chaucer's 

"  Smale  foules  maken  melodie 
That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye," 

and  reflected  that  Cheri  certainly  made  melodie 
enough  in  the  daytime  to  be  ranked  with  the 
poetic  tribe ;  but  one  night,  after  he  had  been 
here  long  enough  to  have  worn  away  his  nervous 
excitement,  I  happened  to  go  into  the  room  very 
softly,  and  the  black  beads  had  disappeared.  The 
tiny  head  had  disappeared  too,  and  only  a  little 
round  ball  of  feathers  was  balanced  on  his  perch. 
Then  I  remembered  that  chickens  have  a  way 
of  putting  their  heads  in  their  pockets  when  they 


CHERI.  335 

go  to  sleep,  and  poetry  yielded  to  poultry,  Cheri 
stepped  out  of  Chaucer,  and  took  his  place  in 
the  hencoop. 

He  has  had  an  eventful  life  since  he  came  to 
me.  In  the  summer  I  hung  him  on  a  hook  under 
the  piazza  for  the  merry  company  of  rohins  and 
bluebirds,  which  he  enjoyed  excessively.  One 
day,  in  the  midst  of  a  most  successful  concert,  an 
envious  gust  swept  down  the  cage,  up  went  the 
door,  and  out  flew  the  frightened  bird.  I  could 
have  borne  to  lose  him,  but  I  was  sure  he  would 
lose  himself,  —  a  tender  little  dilettante,  served 
like  a  prince  all  the  days  of  his  life,  never  having 
to  lift  a  finger  to  help  himself,  or  knowing  a  want 
unsatisfied.  Now,  thrown  suddenly  upon  his  own 
resources,  homeless,  friendless,  forlorn,  how  could 
he  ever  make  his  fortune  in  this  bleak  New  Eng- 
land, for  all  he  has,  according  to  Cuvier,  more 
brains  in  his  head  in  proportion  to  his  size  than 
any  other  created  being?  I  saw  him  already  in 
midsummer,  drenched  with  cold  rains,  chilled  and 
perishing ;  but  sharper  eyes  than  mine  had  marked 
his  flight,  and  a  pair  of  swift  hands  plunged  after 
him  into  the  long  grass  that  tangled  his  wings  and 
kept  him  back  from  headlong  destruction. 

Amicable  relations  between  Cheri  and  the  cat 
are  on  a  most  precarious  footing.  The  cat  was 
established  in  the  house  before  Cheri  came,  —  a 
lovely,  frolicsome  kitten,  that  sat  in  my  lap,  purred 
up  in  my  face,  rubbed  her  nose  against  my  book, 


336  CHERI. 

and  grew  up,  to  my  horror,  out  of  all  possibility 
of  caresses,  into  a  great,  ugly,  fierce,  fighting  ani- 
mal, that  comes  into  the  house  drenched  and  drip- 
ping from  the  mud-puddle  in  which  she  has  been 
rolling  in  a  deadly  struggle  with  every  Tom  Hyer 
and  Bill  Sayers  of  the  cat  kind  that  make  night 
hideous  through  the  village.  This  cat  seems  to 
be  possessed  with  a  devil  every  time  she  looks 
at  Cheri.  Her  green  eyes  bulge  out  of  her  head, 
her  whole  feline  soul  rushes  into  them,  and  glares 
with  a  hot,  greeny-yellow  fire  and  fury  of  un- 
quenchable desire.  One  evening  I  had  put  the 
cage  on  a  chair,  and  was  quietly  reading  in  the 
room  below,  when  a  great  slam  and  bang  startled 
the  house.  "  The  bird  !  "  shrieked  a  voice,  mine 
or  another's.  I  rushed  up-stairs.  The  moon- 
light shone  in,  revealing  the  cage  upturned  on 
the  floor,  the  water  running,  the  seeds  scattered 
about,  and  a  feather  here  and  there.  The  cat 
had  managed  to  elude  observation  and  glide  in, 
and  she  now  managed  to  elude  observation  and 
glide  out.  Cheri  was  alive,  but  his  enemy  had 
attacked  him  in  the  flank,  and  turned  his  left  wing, 
which  was  pretty  much  gone,  according  to  all  ap- 
pearances. He  could  not  mount  his  perch,  and 
for  three  days,  crouching  on  the  floor  of  his  cage, 
life  seemed  to  have  lost  its  charm.  His  spir- 
its drooped,  his  appetite  failed,  and  his  song  was 
hushed.  Then  his  feathers  grew  out  again,  his 
spirit  returned  to  him  with  his  appetite,  and  he 


CHERL  337 

hopped  about  as  good  as  new.  To  think  that 
cat  should  have  been  able  to  thrust  her  villanous 
claw  in  far  enough  to  clutch  a  handful  of  feathers 
out  of  him  before  she  upset  the  cage !  I  have 
heard  that  canaries  sometimes  die  of  fright.  If 
so,  I  think  Cheri  would  have  been  justified  in 
doing  it.  To  have  a  great  overgrown  monster, 
with  burning  globes  of  eyes  as  big  as  your  head 
and  claws  as  sharp  as  daggers,  come  glaring  on 
you  in  the  darkness,  overturn  your  house,  and 
grab  half  your  side  with  one  huge  paw,  is  a  thing 
well  calculated  to  alarm  a  person  of  delicate  or- 
ganization. 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  this  cat  thinks  she  has 
struck  a  placer,  and  a  hundred  to  one  she  will  be 
driving  her  pick  in  here  again  directly.  So  I 
removed  the  cage  immediately,  and  set  it  on  a 
high  bureau,  with  a  "  whisking-stick  "  close  by  it. 
Sure  enough  I  was  awakened  the  next  morn- 
ing before  day  by  a  prolonged  and  mournful 
"  maeouw  "  of  disappointment  from  the  old  dragon 
at  not  finding  the  prey  where  she  had  expected. 
Before  she  had  time  to  push  her  researches  to  suc- 
cess, she  and  I  and  the  stick  were  not  letting  the 
grass  grow  under  our,  feet  on  the  stairs.  Long 
after,  when  the  fright  and  flurry  had  been  forgot- 
ten, the  cage  was  again  left  in  a  rocking-chair  in 
the  upper  front  entry,  where  I  had  been  sitting  in 
the  sunshine  all  the  afternoon  with  Cheri,  who 
thinks  me,  though  far  inferior  to  a  robin  or  a  finch, 

15  V 


338  CHERI. 

still  better  than  no  company  at  all.  In  the  course 
of  the  evening  I  happened  to  open  the  lower  entry 
door,  when  the  cat  suddenly  appeared  on  the 
lower  stair.  I  should  have  supposed  she  had 
come  from  the  sitting-room  with  me,  but  for  a 
certain  elaborate  and  enforced  nonchalance  in  her 
demeanor,  a  jaunty  air  of  insouciance,  as  far  re- 
moved, on  the  one  hand,  from  the  calm  equilibrium 
of  dignity  which  almost  imperceptibly  soothes  and 
reassures  you,  as  from  the  guileless  gayety  of  in- 
fantile ignorance,  which  perforce  "  medicines  your 
weariness,"  on  the  other,  —  a  demeanor  which  at 
once  disgusts  and  alarms  you.  I  felt  confident  that 
some  underhand  work  was  going  on.  I  went  up- 
stairs. There  was  Cheri  again,  this  time  with  his 
right  wing  gone,  and  a  modicum  of  his  tail.  The 
cage  had  retained  its  position,  but  the  Evil  One 
had  made  her  grip  at  him ;  and  the  same  routine  of 
weariness,  silence,  loss  of  appetite  and  spirits  was 
to  be  gone  through  with  again,  followed  by  re-plum- 
ing and  recuperating.  But  every  time  I  think  of 
it,  I  am  lost  in  wonder  at  the  skill  and  sagacity  of 
that  cat.  It  was  something  to  carry  on  the  cam- 
paign in  a  rocking-chair,  without  disturbing  the 
base  of  operations  so  as  to  make  a  noise  and  create 
a  diversion  in  favor  of  the  bird ;  but  the  cunning 
and  self-control  which,  as  soon  as  I  opened  the 
door,  made  her  leave  the  bird,  and  come  purring 
about  my  feet,  and  tossing  her  innocent  head  to 
disarm  suspicion,  was  wonderful.  I  look  at  her 


CHERL  339 

sometimes,  when  we  have  been  sitting  together  a 
long  while,  and  say,  with  steadfast  gaze,  "  Cat- 
soul,  what  are  you  ?  Where  are  you  ?  Whence 
come  you  ?  Whither  go  you  ?  "  But  she  only 
flirts  her  whiskers,  and  gives  me  no  satisfaction. 
But  I  saw  at  once  that  I  must  make  a  different 
disposition  of  Cheri.  It  would  never  do  to  have 
him  thus  mauled.  To  be  sure,  I  suppose  the  cat 
might  be  educationally  mauled  into  letting  him 
alone ;  but  why  should  I  beat  the  beast  for  simply 
acting  after  her  kind  ?  Has  not  the  Manciple, 
with  as  much  philosophy  as  poetry,  bidden, — 

"Let  take  a  cat,  and  foster  hire  with  milke 
And  tendre  flesh,  and  make  hire  couche  of  silke, 
And  let  hire  see  a  mous  go  by  the  wall, 
Anon  she  weiveth  milke  and  flesh,  and  all, 
And  every  deintee  that  is  in  that  hous, 
Swich  appetit  hath  she  to  ete  the  mous 
Lo,  here  hath  kind  hire  domination, 
And  appetit  flemeth  discretion  "  ? 

Accordingly  I  respected  the  "  domination  "  of 
"  kind,"  took  the  cage  into  the  parlor  and  hung  it 
up  in  the  folds  of  the  window-curtain,  where  there 
is  always  sunshine,  wrapping  a  strip  of  brown  paper 
around  the  lower  part  of  the  cage,  so  that  he  should 
not  scatter  his  seeds  over  the  carpet.  What  is  the 
result  ?  Perversely  he  forsakes  his  cup  of  seed, 
nicely  mixed  to  suit  his  royal  taste  ;  forsakes  his 
conch-shell,  nicely  fastened  within  easy  reach  ; 
forsakes  the  bright  sand  that  lies  whitely  strewn 
beneath  his  feet,  and  pecks,  pecks,  pecks  away  at 


340  CHERI. 

that  stiff,  raw,  coarse  brown  paper,  jagging  great 
gaps  in  it  from  hour  to  hour.  I  do  not  mind  the 
waste  of  paper,  even  at  its  present  high  prices  ;  but 
suppose  there  should  be  an  ornithological  dyspep- 
sia, or  a  congestion  of  the  gizzard,  or  some  internal 
derangement  ?  The  possibility  of  such  a  thing 
gave  me  infinite  uneasiness  at  first ;  but  he  has 
now  been  at  it  so  long  without  suffering  percepti- 
ble harm,  that  I  begin  to  think  Nature  knows  what 
she  is  about,  and  brown  paper  agrees  with  birds. 
I  am  confident,  however,  that  he  would  devour  it 
all  the  same,  whether  it  were  salutary  or  otherwise, 
for  he  is  a  mule-headed  fellow.  I  let  him  loose  on 
the  flower-stand  yesterday,  hoping  he  might  deal 
death  to  a  horde  of  insects  who  had  suddenly 
squatted  on  the  soil  of  the  money-plant.  He 
scarcely  so  much  as  looked  at  the  insects,  but 
hopped  up  to  the  adjoining  rose-bush,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  gorge  himself  with  tender  young  leaves. 
I  tilted  him  away  from  that,  and  he  fluttered  across 
the  money-plant  over  to  the  geranium  opposite. 
Disturbed  there,  he  flashed  to  the  other  side  of  the 
stand,  and,  quick  as  thought,  gave  one  mighty  dab 
at  a  delicate  little  fuchsia  that  is  just  "  picking  up  " 
from  the  effects  of  transplanting  and  a  long  winter 
journey.  Seeing  he  was  bent  on  making  himself 
disagreeable,  I  put  him  into  his  cage  again,  first 
having  to  chase  him  all  about  the  room  to  catch 
him,  and  prying  him  up  at  last  from  between  a  pic- 
ture and  the  wall,  where  he  had  flown  and  settled 


CHERI..  341 

down  in  his  struggle  to  get  out.  For  my  Cheri  is 
not  in  the  least  tame.  He  is  an  entirely  unedu- 
cated bird.  I  have  seen  canaries  sit  on  people's 
fingers  and  eat  from  their  tongues,  but  Cheri  flies 
around  like  a  madman  at  the  first  approach  of  fin- 
gers. Indeed,  he  quite  provokes  me  by  his  want  of 
trust.  He  ought  to  know  by  this  time  that  I  am 
his  friend,  yet  he  goes  off"  into  violent  hysterics  the 
moment  I  touch  him.  He  does  not  even  show 
fight.  There  is  no  outcry  of  anger  or  alarm,  but 
one  "  Yang !  "  of  utter  despair.  He  gives  up  at 
once.  Life  is  a  burden,  his  "  Yang !  "  says.  "  Ev- 
erything is  going  to  ruin.  There  is  no  use  in 
trying.  I  wish  I  never  was  born.  Yang  !  "  Lit- 
tle old  croaker,  what  are  you  Yang-ing  for  ? 
Nobody  wishes  to  harm  you.  It  is  your  little 
cowardly  heart  that  sees  lions  and  hyenas  in  a  well- 
meaning  forefinger  and  thumb.  Be  sensible. 

Another  opportunity  for  the  exhibition  of  his 
perversity  is  furnished  by  his  bathing.  His  per- 
sonal habits  are  exquisite.  He  has  a  gentleman's 
liking  for  cold  water  and  the  appliances  of  cleanli- 
ness ;  but  if  I  spread  a  newspaper  on  the  floor, 
and  prepare  everything  for  a  comfortable  and  con- 
venient bath,  the  little  imp  clings  to  his  perch 
immovable.  It  is  not  only  a  bath  that  he  wishes, 
but  fun.  Mischief  is  his  sine  qua  non  of  enjoy- 
ment. "  What  is  the  good  of  bathing,  if  you 
cannot  spoil  anything  ?  "  says  he.  "  If  you  will 
put  the  bath-tub  in  the  window,  where  I  can  splash 


342  CHERL 

and  spatter  the  glass  and  the  curtains  and  the  fur- 
nitnre,  very  well,  but  if  not,  why  — "  he  sits  in- 
corrigible, with  eyes  half  closed,  pretending  to  be 
sleepy,  and  not  see  water  anywhere,  the  rogue ! 

One  day  I  heard  a  great  "  to-do  "  in  the  cage, 
and  found  that  half  the  blind  was  shut,  and  helped 
Cheri  to  a  reflection  of  himself,  which  he  evidently 
thought  was  another  bird,  and  he  was  in  high 
feather.  He  hopped  about  from  perch  to  perch, 
sidled  from  one  side  of  the  cage  to  the  other, 
bowed  and  bobbed  and  courtesied  to  himself,  sung 
and  swelled  and  smirked,  and  became  thoroughly 
frantic  with  delight.  "  Poor  thing !  "  I  said,  "  you 
are  lonely,  no  wonder."  I  had  given  him  a  new 
and  shining  cage,  a  green  curtain,  a  sunny  window ; 
but  of  what  avail  are  these  to  a  desolate  heart  ? 
Who  does  not  know  that  the  soul  may  starve  in 
splendor  ?  "  Solitude,"  says  Balzac,  I  think,  "  is  a 
fine  thing  ;  but  it  is  also  a  fine  thing  to  have  some 
one  to  whom  you  can  say,  from  time  to  time,  that 
solitude  is  a  fine  thing."  I  know  that  I  am  but  a 
poor  substitute  for  a  canary-bird,  —  a  gross  and 
sorry  companion  for  one  of  .ethereal  mould.  I  can 
supply  seed  and  water  and  conch-shells,  but  what  do 
I  know  of  finchy  loves  and  hopes  ?  What  sympa- 
thy have  I  to  offer  in  his  joyous  or  sorrowful  moods  ? 
How  can  I  respond  to  his  enthusiasms  ?  How  can 
I  compare  notes  with  him  as  to  the  sunshine  and 
the  trees  and  the  curtain  and  views  of  life  ?  It  is 
not  sunshine,  but  sympathy,  that  lights  up  houses 


CHERL  343 

into  homes.  Companionship  is  what  he  needs, 
alike  for  his  higher  aspirations  and  his  every-day 
experiences,  —  somebody  to  whom  he  can  observe 
that  "  The  sand  is  rather  gritty  to-day,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Very  much  as  usual,  my  dear." 

"  Here  is  a  remarkably  plump  seed,  my  dear  > 
won't  you  have  it?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  dear,  nothing  more.  Trol-la- 
la-r-r-r ! " 

"  Do  let  me  help  you  to  a  bit  of  this  hemp.  It 
is  quite  a  marvel  of  ripeness." 

"  Thank  you.     Just  a  snip.     Plenty." 

"My  dear,  I  think  you  are  stopping  in  the 
bath-tub  too  long  this  morning.  I  fancied  you 
were  a  trifle  hoarse  yesterday." 

"  It  was  the  company,  pet.  I  strained  my  voice 
slightly  in  that  last  duet." 

"  We  shall  have  to  be  furnished  with  a  new 
shell  before  long.  This  old  one  is  getting  to  be 
rather  the  last  peas  of  the  picking." 

"  Yes,  I  nearly  broke  my  beak  over  it  yester- 
day. I  was  quite  ashamed  of  it  when  the  ladies 
were  staring  at  you  so  admiringly." 

"  Little  one,  I  have  a  great  mind  to  try  that 
swing.  It  has  tempted  me  this  long  while." 

"  My  love,  I  beg  you  will  do  no  such  thing. 
You  will  inevitably  break  your  neck." 

Instead  of  this  pleasant  conjugal  chit-chat,  what 
has  he  ?  Nothing.  He  stands  looking  out  at  the 
window  till  his  eyes  ache,  and  then  he  turns 


344  CHERT. 

around  and  looks  at  me.  If  any  one  comes  in 
and  begins  to  talk,  and  he  delightedly  joins,  he 
get*  a  handkerchief  thrown  over  his  cage.  Some- 
times the  cat  creeps  in,  —  very  seldom,  for  I  do 
not  trust  her,  even  with  the  height  of  the  room 
between  them,  and  punish  her  whenever  I  find 
her  on  forbidden  ground,  by  taking  her  up-stairs 
and  putting  her  out  on  the  porch-roof,  where 
she  has  her  choice  to  stay  and  starve  or  jump 
off.  This  satisfies  my  conscience  while  giving 
a  good  lesson  to  the  cat,  who  is  not  fond  of  sal- 
tatory feats,  now  that  she  is  getting  into  years. 
If  it  is  after  her  kind  to  prey  upon  birds,  and  she 
must  therefore  not  be  beaten,  it  is  also  after  her 
kind  to  leap  from  anywhere  and  come  down  on 
her  feet,  and  therefore  the  thing  does  not  harm 
her.  Whenever  she  does  stealthily  worm  herself 
in,  Cheri  gives  the  pitch  the  moment  he  sets  eyes 
on  her.  Cat  looks  up  steadily  at  him  for  five 
minutes.  Cheri,  confident,  strikes  out  in  a  very 
tempting  way.  Cat  describes  a  semicircle  around 
the  window,  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth, 
keeping  ever  her  back  to  the  room  and  her  front 
to  the  foe,  glaring  and  mewing  and  licking  her 
chaps.  O,  what  a  delicious  tit-bit,  if  one  could 
but  get  at  it !  Cheri  sings  relentlessly.  Like 
Shirley  with  Louis  Moore  in  her  clutches,  he  will 
not  subdue  one  of  his  charms  in  compassion. 

"  Certes  it  is  not  of  herte,  all  that  he  sings." 

She  leaps  into  a  chair.    Not  a  quarter  high  enough. 


CHERL  345 

She  jumps  to  the  window-seat,  and  walks  to  and 
fro,  managing  the  turning-points  with  much  diffi- 
culty. Impossible.  She  goes  over  to  the  other 
window.  Still  worse.  She  takes  up  position  on 
the  sofa,  and  her  whole  soul  exhales  into  one  want. 

She  mews  and  licks  her  chaps  alternately. 
Cheri  "  pitilessly  sweet "  sings  with  unsparing 
insolence  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  looks  in- 
differently over  her  head. 

That  is  the  extent  of  his  society.  "  It  is  too 
bad,"  I  said  one  day,  and  scoured  the  country  for 
a  canary-bird.  Everybody  had  had  one,  but  it 
was  sold.  Then  I  remembered  Barnum's  Happy 
Family,  and  went  out  to  the  hen-pen,  and  brought 
in  a  little  auburn  chicken,  with  white  breast,  and 
wings  just  budding  ;  a  size  and  a  half  larger  than 
Cheri,  it  is  true,  but  the  smallest  of  the  lot,  and 
very  soft  and  small  for  a  chicken,  the  prettiest 
wee,  waddling  tot  you  ever  saw,  a  Minnie  Warren 
of  a  little  duck,  and  put  him  in  the  cage.  A  tem- 
pest in  a  tea-pot !  Cheri  went  immediately  into 
fits  and  furies.  He  hopped  about  convulsively. 
You  might  have  supposed  him  attacked  simultane- 
ously with  St.  Anthony's  fire,  St.  Vitus's  dance, 
and  delirium  tremens.  He  shrieked,  he  writhed, 
he  yelled,  he  raved.  The  chicken  was  stupid.  If 
he  had  exerted  himself  a  little  to  be  agreeable,  if 
he  had  only  shown  the  smallest  symptom  of  inter- 
est or  curiosity  or  desire  to  cultivate  an  acquaint- 
ance, I  have  no  doubt  something  might  have  been 
15* 


346  CHERI. 

accomplished  ;  but  he  just  huddled  down  in  one 
corner  of  the  cage,  half  frightened  to  death,  like 
a  logy,  lumpy,  country  bumpkin  as  he  was,  and  I 
swept  him  back  to  his  native  coop  in  disgust. 
Relieved  from  the  lout's  presence,  Cheri  gradually 
laid  aside  his  tantrums,  smoothed  down  his  ruffled 
plumes,  and  resumed  the  manners  of  a  gentleman. 

My  attempt  at  happy  families  was  nipped  in  the 
bud,  decidedly. 

By  and  by  I  went  to  the  market-town,  and, 
having  sold  my  butter  and  eggs,  hunted  up  a 
bird-fancier.  He  had  plenty  of  heliotropes,  ver- 
benas, and  japonicas,  and  had  had  plenty  of  birds, 
but  of  course  they  were  every  one  gone.  Nobody 
wanted  them.  He  had  just  about  given  them 
away,  for  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  or  so,  and  since 
then  ever  so  many  had  been  to  buy  them.  Could 
he  tell  me  where  I  might  find  one  ?  Yes,  he  sold 
one  to  the  barber  last  week,  down  near  the  depot. 
Did  n't  believe  but  what  he  would  sell  it.  Was 
it  a  female  bird  ?  For  my  ambition  had  grown 
by  what  it  fed  on,  and,  instead  of  contenting 
myself  simply  with  a  companion  for  Cheri,  I 
was  now  planning  for  a  whole  brood  of  canaries, 
with  all  the  interests  of-  housekeeping,  baby-tend- 
ing, and  the  manifold  small  cares  incident  upon 
domestic  life.  In  short,  I  was  launching  out  upon 
an  entirely  new  career,  setting  a  new  world  a- 
spinning  in  that  small  wire  cage.  Yes,  it  was  a  fe- 
male bird.  A  good  bird  ?  For  I  could  not  under- 


CHERI.  347 

stand  the  marvellously  low  price.  Yes  'm,  prime. 
Had  eight  young  ones  last  year.  Eight  young 
ones !  I  rather  caught  my  breath.  I  wanted 
a  brood,  but  I  thought  three  was  the  regular 
number,  and  I  must  confess  I  could  hardly  look 
with  fortitude  on  such  a  sudden  and  enormous 
accession  of  responsibility.  Besides,  the  cage 
was  not  half  large  enough.  And  how  could  they 
all  bathe?  And  how  could  I  take  proper  care  of 
so  many  ?  And,  dear  me,  eight  young  ones ! 
And  eight  more  next  year  is  sixteen.  And  the 
grandchildren  !  And  the  great-grandchildren  ! 
Hills  on  hills  and  Alps  on  Alps !  I  shall  be  pecked 
out  of  house  and  home.  I  walked  up  the  street 
musingly,  and  finally  concluded  not  to  call  on  the 
barber  just  yet. 

It  was  very  well  I  did  so,  for  just  afterwards 
Cheri's  matins  and  vespers  waxed  fainter  and 
fainter,  and  finally  ceased  altogether.  In  great 
anxiety  I  called  in  the  highest  medical  science, 
which  announced  that  he  was  only  shedding  his 
feathers.  This  opinion  was  corroborated  by  nu- 
merous little  angelic  soft  fine  feathers  scattered 
about  in  localities  that  precluded  the  cat.  Cheri 
is  a  proud  youngster,  and  I  suppose  he  thought  if 
he  must  lose  his  good  looks,  there  was  no  use  in 
keeping  up  his  voice ;  therefore  he  moped  and 
pouted  for  several  months,  and  would  have  ap- 
peared to  very  great  disadvantage  in  case  I  had 
introduced  a  stranger  to  his  good  graces. 


348  CHERL 

So  Cheri  is  still  alone  in  the  world,  but  when 
my  ship  comes  home  from  sea.  and  brings  an  addi- 
tional hour  to  my  day,  and  a  few  golden  eagles  to 
my  purse,  he  is  going  to  have  his  mate,  eight 
young  ones  and  all,  and  I  shall  buy  him  a  new 
cage,  a  trifle  smaller  than  Noah's  ark,  and  a  cask 
of  canary-seed  and  a  South  Sea  turtle-shell,  and 
just  put  them  in  the  cage  and  let  them  colonize. 
If  they  increase  and  multiply  beyond  all  possibility 
of  provision,  why,  I  shall  by  that  time,  perhaps, 
have  become  world-encrusted  and  hard-hearted, 
and  shall  turn  the  cat  in  upon  them  for  an  hour 
or  two,  which  will  no  doubt  have  the  effect  of  at 
once  thinning  them  down  to  wieldy  proportions. 

Sweet  little  Cheri.  My  heart  smites  me  to  see 
you  chirping  there  so  innocent  and  affectionate 
while  I  sit  here  plotting  treason  against  you. 
Bright  as  is  the  day  and  dazzling  as  the  sunlit 
snow,  you  turn  away  from  it  all,  so  strong  is  your 
craving  for  sympathy,  and'  bend  your  tiny  head 
towards  me  to  pour  out  the  fulness  of  your  song. 

And  what  a  song  it  is !  All  the  bloom  of  his 
beautiful  islands  sheds  its  fragrance  there.  The 
hum  of  his  honey-bees  roving  through  beds  of 
spices,  the  loveliness  of  dark-eyed  maidens  tread- 
ing the  wine-press  with  ruddy  feet,  the  laughter 
of  young  boys  swinging  in  the  vines  and  stained 
with  the  scented  grapes,  —  all  the  music  that  rings 
through  his  orange-groves,  all  the  sunshine  of  the 
tropics  caught  in  the  glow  of  fruit  and  flower,  in 


CHERI. 


349 


the  blue  of  sky  and  sea,  in  the  blinding  whiteness  of 
the  shore  and  the  amethystine  evening,  —  all  come 
quivering  over  the  western  wave  in  the  falls  of  his 
tuneful  voice.  You  shall  hear  it  while  the  day  is 
yet  dark  in  the  folds  of  the  morning  twilight,  —  a 
weak,  faint,  preliminary  "  whoo  !  whoo  !  "  uncer- 
tain and  tentative,  then  a  trill  or  two  of  awakened 
assurance,  and  then,  with  a  confident,  courageous 
gush  and  glory  of  soul,  he  flings  aside  all  minor 
considerations,  and  dashes  con  amore  into  the  very- 
middle  of  things.  I  am  not  musical,  and  cannot 
give  you  his  notes  in  technical  hieroglyphs,  but  in 
exact  and  intelligible  lines  such  as  all  may  under- 
stand, whether  musical  or  not,  his  song  is  like 
this,  —  and  you  may  rely  upon  its  accuracy,  for  I 
wrote  it  down  from  his  own  lips  this  morning :  —  , 


SIDE-GLANCES 

AT 

HARVARD  CLASS-DAY. 


SIDE-GLANCES  AT 
HARVARD    CLASS-DAY. 


happened  to  me  once  to  "assist"  at 
the  celebration  of  Class-Day  at  Har- 
''  vard  University.  Class-Day  is  the  pe- 
culiar institution  of  the  Senior  Class, 
and  marks  its  completion  of  College  study  and 
release  from  College  rules. 

Harvard  has  set  up  her  Lares  and  Penates  in 
a  fine  old  grove,  or  a  fine  old  grove  and  green 
have  sprouted  up  around  her,  as  the  case  may 
be,  —  most  probably  the  latter,  if  one  may  judge 
from  the  appearance  of  the  buildings  which  con- 
stitute the  homes  of  the  students,  and  which  seem 
to  have  been  built,  and  to  be  now  sustained,  with- 
out the  remotest  reference  to  taste  or  influence, 
but  solely  to  furnish  shelter,  —  angular,  formal, 
stiff,  windowy,  bricky,  and  worse  within  than 
without.  Why,  I  pray  to  know,  as  the  first  in- 
quiry suggested  by  Class-Day,  why  is  it  that  a 
boys"'  school  should  be  placed  beyond  the  pale  of 


354  SIDE-GLANCES 

civilisation  ?  Do  boys  take  so  naturally  to  the 
amenities  of  life,  that  they  can  safely  dispense 
with  the  conditions  of  amenity  ?  Have  boys  so 
strong  a  predisposition  to  grace,  that  society  can 
afford  to  take  them  away  from  home  and  its  in- 
fluences, and  turn  them  loose  with  dozens  of  other 
boys  into  a  bare  and  battered  boarding-house, 
with  its  wood-work  dingy,  unpainted,  gashed, 
scratched ;  windows  dingy  and  dim ;  walls  dingy 
and  gray  and  smoked ;  everything  narrow  and 
vickety,  unhomelike  and  unattractive  ? 

America  boasts  of  having  the  finest  educational 
system  in  the  world.  Harvard  is,  if  not  the  most 
distinguished,  certainly  among  the  first  institutions 
in  the  country ;  but  it  is  necessary  only  to  stand 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  first  Harvard  house 
which  I  entered,  to  pass  through  its  mean  entry 
pud  climb  up  its  uncouth  staircase,  to  be  assured 
that  our  educational  system  has  not  yet  found 
its  key-stone.  It  has  all  the  necessary  materials, 
but  it  is  incomplete.  At  its  base  it  is  falling 
e-rery  day  more  and  more  into  shape  and  sym- 
metry, but  towards  the  top  it  is  still  only  a  pile  of 
pebbles  and  boulders,  and  no  arch.  We  have 
Primary  Schools,  Grammar  Schools,  High  Schools, 
in  which,  first,  boys  and  girls  are  educated  to- 
gether, as  it  seems  impossible  not  to  believe  that 
God  meant  them  to  be  ;  in  which,  secondly,  home 
life  and  school  life  come  together,  and  correct  each 
other ;  in  which,  thirdly,  comfortable  and  comely 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  355 

arrangements  throughout  minister  to  self-respect. 
But  the  moment  you  rise  as  high  as  ar  college,  na- 
ture is  violated.  First,  boys  go  off  by  themselves  to 
their  own  destruction ;  secondly,  home  influences 
are  withdrawn ;  and,  thirdly,  —  at  Harvard,  which 
is  the  only  college  I  ever  visited,  —  the  thorough 
comeliness  which  is  found  in  the  lower  grades 
of  schools  does  not  appear.  The  separation  of 
boys  and  girls  in  school  is  a  subject  which  has 
been  much  talked  about,  but  has  not  yet  come 
to  its  adequate  discussion.  But  the  achievements 
of  the  past  are  the  surest  guaranties  of  the  future. 
When  we  remember  that,  sixty  years  ago,  the 
lowest  district  public  schools  were  open  to  boys 
only,  and  that  since  that  time  girls  have -flocked 
into  every  grade  of  school  below  a  college,  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  that  college  doors  will  forever 
stand  closed  to  them.  /  believe  that  the  time 
will  come  when  any  system  framed  for  boys  alone 
or  for  girls  alone  will  be  looked  upon  in  the  same 
light  in  which  we  now  regard  a  monastery  or  a 
nunnery.  Precisely  the  same  course  will  not  be 
prescribed  to  both  sexes,  but  they  will  be  asso- 
ciated in  their  education  to  the  inestimable  advan- 
tage of  both. 

This,  however,  I  do  not  purpose  now  to  discuss 
further.  Neither  shall  I  speak  of  the  second  de- 
ficiency, —  that  of  home  influences,  —  any  further 
than  it  is  connected  with  the  third,  namely,  a 
culpable  neglect  of  circumstances  which  minister 


356  SIDE-GLANCES 

directly  to  character.  I  design  to  speak  only  of 
those  evils  which  lie  on  the  surface,  patent  to  th> 
most  casual  observer,  and  which  may  be  remover* 
without  any  change  in  the  structure  of  society. 
And  among  the  first  of  these  I  reckon  the  meai> 
and  meagre  homes  provided  for  the  college  stu- 
dents. If  the  State  were  poor,  if  the  question 
were  between  mere  rude  shelter  and  no  col- 
lege education,  we  should  do  well  to  choose  the 
former,  and  our  choice  would  be  our  glory.  It 
would  be  worth  while  even  to  live  in  such  a 
house  as  Thoreau  suggests,  a  tool-box  with  a 
few  augur-holes  bored  in  it  to  admit  air,  and 
a  hook  to  hook  down  the  lid  at  night.  But  we 
are  not  poor.  Society  has  money  enough  to 
do  everything  it  wishes  to  do ;  and  it  has  pro- 
vided no  better  homes  for  its  young  men  be- 
cause it  has  not  come  to  the  point  of  believing 
that  better  homes  are  necessary.  Sometimes  it 
affects  to  maintain  that  this  way  of  living  is  ben- 
eficial, and  talks  of  the  disciplinary  power  of 
soldiers'  fare.  It  is  true  that  a  soldier,  living  on 
a  crust  of  bread  and  lying  on  the  ground  for  love 
of  country  or  of  duty,  is  ennobled  by  it;  but  it 
is  also  true,  that  a  miser  doing  the  same  things 
for  love  of  stocks  and  gold  is  degraded;  and  a 
dreamer  doing  it  serenely  unconscious  is  neither 
ennobled  nor  degraded,  but  is  simply  laying  the 
foundation  for  dyspepsia.  To  despise  the  ele- 
gances of  life  when  they  interfere  with  its  duties 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  357 

is  the  part  of  a  hero.  To  be  indifferent  to  them 
when  they  stand  in  the  way  of  knowledge  is  the  at- 
tribute of  a  philosopher.  To  disregard  them  when 
they  would  contribute  to  both  character  and  cul- 
ture is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  It  was 
very  well  to  cultivate  the  muses  on  a  little  oat- 
meal, when  resources  were  so  scanty  that  a  be- 
quest of  seven  hundred  and  seventy-nine  pounds 
seventeen  shillings  and  two  pence  was  a  gift 
munificent  enough  to  confer  upon  the  donor  the 
honor  of  giving  his  name  to  the  College  so  en- 
dowed ;  when  a  tax  of  one  peck  of  corn,  or 
twelve  pence  a  year,  from  each  family  was  all 
that  could  reasonably  be  levied  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  poor  scholars  at  the  College ;  when  the 
Pilgrims — hardly  escaped  from  persecution,  and 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  perils  by  Indian  war- 
fare, perils  by  frost  and  famine  and  disease,  but 
filled  with  the  love  of  liberty,  and  fired  with  the 
conviction  that  only  fortified  by  learning  could 
it  be  a  blessing  —  gave  of  their  scanty  stock  and 
their  warm  hearts,  one  man  his  sheep,  another  his 
nine  shillings'  worth  of  cotton  cloth,  a  third  his 
pewter  flagon,  and  so  on  down  to  the  fruit-dish,  the 
sugar-spoon,  the  silver-tipt  jug,  and  the  trencher- 
salt  ;  but  a  generation  that  is  not  astonished  when 
a  man  pays  six  thousand  dollars  for  a  few  feet 
of  land  to  bury  himself  in,  is  without  excuse  in 
not  providing  for  its  sons  a  dignified  and  respect- 
able home  during  the  four  years  of  their  co!- 


358  SIDE-GLANCES 

lege  life,  —  years  generally  when  they  are  most 
susceptible  of  impressions,  most  impatient  of  re- 
straints,, most  removed  from  society,  and  most 
need  to  be  surrounded  by  every  inducement  to  a 
courteous  and  Christian  life.  What  was  a  large- 
minded  liberality  then  may  be  but  niggardliness 
or  narrowness  now.  If  indeed  there  be  a  prin- 
ciple in  the  case,  the  principle  that  this  arrange- 
ment is  better  adapted  to  a  generous  growth  than 
a  more  ornate  one,  then  let  it  be  carried  out. 
Let  all  public  edifices  and  private  houses  be  re- 
duced to  a  scale  of  Spartan  simplicity;  let  cam- 
el's-hair  and  leathern  girdles  take  the  place  of 
broadcloth,  and  meat  be  locusts  and  wild  honey. 
But  so  long  as  treasures  of  art  and  treasures  of 
wealth  are  lavished  on  churches,  and  court-houses, 
and  capitols,  and  private  dwellings,  so  long  as 
earth  and  sea  are  forced  to  give  up  the  riches 
which  are  in  them  for  the  adornment  of  the  per- 
son and  the  enjoyment  of  the  palate,  we  cannot 
consistently  bring  forward  either  principles  or 
practice  to  defend  our  neglect  withal.  If  the  ex- 
periment of  a  rough  and  primitive  life  is  to  be 
tried,  let  it  be  tried  at  home,  where  community 
of  interests,  and  diversity  of  tastes,  and  the  re- 
finements of  family  and  social  life,  will  prevent 
it  from  degenerating  into  a  fatal  failure ;  but 
do  not  let  a  horde  of  boys  colonize  in  a  base 
and  shabby  dwelling,  unless  you  are  willing  to 
admit  the  corollary  that  they  may  to  that  extent 


AT  HARVARD  CLASS-DAY.  359 

become  Lase  and  shabby.  If  they  do  become 
so,  they  are  scarcely  blameworthy ;  if  they  do 
not,  it  is  no  thanks  to  the  system,  but  because 
other  causes  come  in  to  deflect  its  conclusions. 
But  why  set  down  a  weight  at  one  end  of  the 
lever  because  there  is  a  power  at  the  other  ?  Why 
not  wait  until,  in  the  natural  course  of  things, 
the  lever  comes  to  an  obstacle,  and  then  let 
the  power  bear  down  with  all  its  might  to  re- 
move it  ? 

Doubtless  those  who  look  back  upon  their  col- 
lege days  through  the  luminous  mist  of  years,  see 
no  gray  walls  or  rough  floors,  and  count  it  only 
less  than  sacrilege  to  find  spot  or  wrinkle  or  any 
such  thing  on  the  garments  of  their  alma  mater. 
But  awful  is  the  gift  of  the  gods  that  we  can  be- 
come used  to  things  ;  awful,  since,  by  becoming 
used  to  them,  we  become  insensible  to  their  faults 
and  tolerant  of  their  defects.  Harvard  is  beloved 
of  her  sons  :  would  she  be  any  less  beloved  if  she 
were  also  beautiful  to  outside  barbarians  ?  Would 
her  fame  be  less  fair,  or  her  name  less  dear,  if 
those  who  come  up  to  her  solemn  feasts,  filled 
with  the  idea  of  her  greatness,  could  not  only 
tell  her  towers,  but  consider  her  palaces,  without 
being  forced  to  bury  their  admiration  and  rever- 
ence under  the  first  threshold  which  they  cross  ? 
O,  be  sure  the  true  princess  is  not  yet  found,  for 
the  king's  daughter  is  all  glorious  within. 

Deficiency  takes  shelter   under  antiquity  and 


360  SIDE-GLANCES 

associations  :  associations  may,  indeed,  festoon 
unlovely  places,  but  would  they  cluster  any  less 
richly  around  Avails  that  were  stately  and  ade- 
quate ?  Is  it  not  fitter  that  associations  should 
adorn,  than  that  they  should  conceal  ?  If  here 
and  there  a  relic  of  the  olden  time  is  cherished 
because  it  is  olden,  —  a  house,  a  book,  a  dress,  — 
shall  we  then  live  only  in  the  houses,  read  only  the 
books,  and  wear  the  dresses  of  our  ancestors  ?  If 
here  and  there  some  ship  has  breasted  the  billows 
of  time,  and  sails  the  seas  to-day  because  of  its 
own  inherent  grace  and  strength,  shall  we,  there- 
fore, cling  to  crazy  old  crafts  that  can  with  diffi- 
culty be  towed  out  of  harbor,  and  must  be  kept 
afloat  by  constant  application  of  tar  and  oakum  ? 
As  I  read  the  Bible  and  the  world,  gray  hairs  are 
a  crown  unto  a  man  only  when  they  are  found  in 
the  way  of  righteousness.  Laden  with  guilt  and 
heavy  woes,  behold  the  aged  sinner  goes.  A 
seemly  old  age  is  fair  and  beautiful,  and  to  be 
had  in  honor  by  all  people ;  but  an  old  age 
squalid  and  pinched  is  of  all  things  most  pitiful. 
After  the  Oration  and  Poem,  which,  having 
nothing  distinctive,  I  pass  over,  comes  the  "  Col- 
lation." The  members  of  the  Senior  Class  prepare 
a  banquet,  —  sometimes  separately  and  sometimes 
in  clubs,  at  an  expense  ranging  from  fifty  to  five 
hundred  dollars,  —  to  which  they  invite  as  many 
friends  as  they  choose,  or  as  are  available.  The 
banquet  is  quite  as  rich,  varied,  and  elegant  as  you 


Al    HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  361 

find  at  evening  parties,  and  the  occasion  is  a  merry 
and  pleasant  one.  But  it  occurred  to  me  that  there 
may  be  unpleasant  things  connected  with  this  cus- 
tom. In  a  class  of  seventy-five,  in  a  country  like 
America,  it  is  probable  that  a  certain  propor- 
tion are  ill  able  to  meet  the  expense  which  such 
a  custom  necessitates.  Some  have  fought  their 
own  way  through  college.  Some  must  have  been 
fought  through  by  their  parents.  To  them  I  should 
think  this  elaborate  and  considerable  outlay  must 
be  a  very  sensible  inconvenience.  The  mere  ex- 
pense of  books  and  board,  tuition  and  clothing, 
cannot  be  met  without  strict  economy,  and  much 
parental  and  family  sacrifice.  And  at  the  end  of 
it  all,  when  every  nerve  has  been  strained,  and 
must  be  strained  harder  still  before  the  man  can 
be  considered  fairly  on  his  feet  and  able  to  run  his 
own  race  in  life,  comes  this  new  call  for  entirely 
uncollegiate  disbursements.  Of  cours'e  it  is  only  a 
custom.  There  is  no  college  by-law,  I  suppose, 
which  prescribes  a  valedictory  symposium.  Prob- 
ably it  grew  up  gradually  from  small  ice-cream 
beginnings  to  its  present  formidable  proportions  ; 
but  a  custom  is  as  rigid  as  a  chain.  I  wondered 
whether  the  moral  character  of  the  young  men 
was  generally  strong  enough,  by  the  time  they 
were  in  their  fourth  collegiate  year,  to  enable  them 
to  go  counter  to  the  custom,  if  it  involved  personal 
sacrifice  at  home,  —  whether  there  was  generally 
sufficient  courtliness,  not  to  say  Christianity,  in 

16 


3G2  SIDE-GLANCE* 

the  class,  —  whether  there  was  sufficient  courtesy, 
chivalry,  high-breeding,  —  to  make  the  omission  of 
this  party-giving  unnoticeable,  or  not  unpleasant. 
I  by  no  means  say,  that  the  inability  of  a  portion 
of  the  students  to  entertain  their  friends  sumptu- 
ously should  prevent  those  who  are  able  from  doing 
so.  As  the  world  is,  some  will  be  rich  and  some 
will  be  poor.  This  is  a  fact  which  they  have  to 
face  the  moment  they  go  out  into  the  world ;  and 
the  sooner  they  grapple  with  it,  and  find  out  its 
real  bearings  and  worth,  or  worthlessness,  the  bet- 
ter. Boys  are  usually  old  enough  by  the  time  they 
are  graduated  to  understand  and  take  philosophi- 
cally such  a  distinction.  Nor  do  I  admit  that  poor 
people  have  any  right  to  be  sore  on  the  subject  of 
their  poverty.  The  one  sensitiveness  which  I  can- 
not comprehend,  with  which  I  have  no  sympathy, 
for  which  I  have  no  pity,  and  of  which  I  have  no 
tolerance,  is  sensitiveness  about  poverty.  It  is 
an  essentially  vulgar  feeling.  I  cannot  conceive 
how  a  man  who  has  any  real  elevation  of  char- 
acter, any  self-respect,  can  for  a  moment  experi- 
ence so  ignoble  a  shame.  One  may  be  annoyed 
at  the  inconveniences,  and  impatient  of  the  re- 
straints of  poverty ;  but  to  be  ashamed  to  be 
called  poor  or  to  be  thought  poor,  to  resort 
to  shifts,  not  for  the  sake  of  being  comfortable 
or  elegant,  but  of  seeming  to  be  above  the  neces- 
sity of  shifts,  is  an  indication  of  an  inferior  mind, 
whether  it  dwell  in  prince  or  in  peasant.  The 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  363 

man  who  does  it  shows  that  he  has  not  in  his 
own  opinion  character  enough  to  stand  alone.  He 
must  be  supported  by  adventitious  circumstances, 
or  he  must  fall.  Nobody,  therefore,  need  ever  ex- 
pect to  receive  sympathy  from  me  in  recounting 
the  social  pangs  or  slights  of  poverty.  You  never 
can  be  slighted,  if  you  do  not  slight  yourself. 
People  may  attempt  to  do  it,  but  their  shafts  have 
no  barb.  You  turn  it  all  into  natural  history.  It 
is  a  psychological  phenomenon,  a  study,  something 
to  be  analyzed,  classified,  reasoned  from,  and  bent 
to  your  own  convenience,  but  not  to  be  taken  to 
heart.  It  amuses  you  ;  it  interests  you  ;  it  adds  to 
your  stock  of  facts  ;  it  makes  life  curious  and  val- 
uable :  but  if  you  suffer  from  it,  it  is  because  you 
have  not  basis,  stamina  ;  and  probably  you  deserve 
to  be  slighted.  This,  however,  is  true  only  when 
people  have  become  somewhat  concentrated.  Chil- 
dren know  nothing  of  it.  They  live  chiefly  from 
without,  not  from  within.  Only  gradually  as  they 
approach  maturity  do  they  cut  loose  from  the 
scaffolding,  and  depend  upon  their  own  centre  of 
gravity.  Appearances  are  very  strong  in  school. 
Money  and  prodigality  have  great  weight  there, 
notwithstanding  the  democracy  of  attainments  and 
abilities.  Have  the  students  self-poise  enough  to 
refrain  from  these  festive  expenses  without  suffering 
mortification  ?  Have  they  virtue  enough  to  refrain 
from  them  with  the  certainty  of  incurring  such 
suffering?  Have  they  nobility,  and  generosity, 


364  SIDE-GLANCES 

and  largeness  of  soul  enough,  while  abstaining 
themselves  for  conscience'  sake,  to  share  in  the 
plans,  and  sympathize  without  servility  in  the  pleas- 
ures of  their  rich  comrades?  to  look  on  with 
friendly  interest,  without  cynicism  or  concealed 
malice,  at  the  preparations  in  which  they  do  not 
join  ?  Or  do  they  yield  to  selfishness,  and  gratify 
their  own  vanity,  weakness,  self-indulgence,  and 
love  of  pleasure,  at  whatever  cost  to  their  parents  ? 
Or  is  there  such  a  state  of  public'  opinion  and  usage 
in  College,  that  this  custom  is  equally  honored  in 
the  breach  and  in  the  observance  ? 


When  the  feasting  was  over,  the  most  pictu- 
resque part  of  the  day  began.  The  College  green 
put  off  suddenly  its  antique  gravity,  and  became 

"  Embrouded as  it  were  a  mede 

Alle  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  white  and  rede,"  — 

"  floures  "  which  to  their  gay  hues  and  graceful 
outlines  added  the  rare  charm  of  fluttering  in  per- 
petual motion.  It  was  a  kaleidoscope  without 
angles.  To  me,  niched  in  the  embrasure  of  an  old 
upper  window,  the  scene,  it  seemed,  might  have 
stepped  out  of  the  Oriental  splendor  of  Arabian 
Nights.  I  never  saw  so  many  well-dressed  peo- 
ple together  in  my  life  before.  That  seems  a 
rather  tame  fact  to  buttress  Arabian  Nights  withal, 
but  it  implies  much.  The  distance  was  a  little 
too  great  for  one  to  note  personal  and  individual 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  365 

beauty ;  but  since  I  have  heard  that  Boston  is 
famous  for  its  ugly  women,  perhaps  that  was 
an  advantage,  as  diminishing  likewise  individual 
ugliness.  If  no  one  was  strikingly  handsome, 
no  one  was  strikingly  plain.  And  though  you 
could  not  mark  the  delicacies  of  faces,  you  could 
have  the  full  effect  of  costume,  —  rich,  majestic, 
floating,  gossamery,  impalpable.  Everything  was 
fresh,  spotless,  and  in  tune.  It  scarcely  needed 
music  to  resolve  all  the  incessant  waver  and  shim- 
mer into  a  dance ;  but  the  music  came,  and,  like 
sand-grains  under  the  magnet,  the  beautiful  atoms 
swept  into  stately  shapes  and  tremulous  measured 
activity,  — 

"  A  fine,  sweet  earthquake  gently  moved 
By  the  soft  wind  of  whispering  silks." 

Then  it  seemed  like  a  German  festival,  and  came 
back  to  me  the  Fatherland,  the  lovely  season  of 
the  Blossoming,  the  short,  sweet  bliss-month  among 
the  Blumenbiihl  Mountains. 

Nothing  can  be  more  appropriate,  more  har- 
monious, than  dancing  on  the  green.  Youth,  and 
gayety,  and  beauty  —  and  in  summer  we  are  all 
young,  and  gay,  and  beautiful  —  mingle  well  with 
the  eternal  youth  of  blue  sky,  and  velvet  sward, 
and  the  light  breezes  toying  in  the  tree-tops. 
Youth  and  Nature  kiss  each  other  in  the  bright, 
clear  pui'ity  of  the  happy  summer-tide.  Whatevei 
objections  lie  against  dancing  elsewhere  must  vei/ 
their  faces  there. 


366  SIDE-GLANCES 

If  only  men  would  not  dance !  It  is  the  most 
unbecoming  exercise  which  they  can  adopt.  In 
women  you  have  the  sweep  and  wrave  of  drapery, 
gentle  undulations,  summer-cloud  floatings,  soft, 
sinuous  movements,  fluency  of  pliant  forms,  the 
willowy  bend  and  rebound  «of  lithe  and  lovely 
suppleness.  It  is  grace  generic,  —  the  sublime, 
the  evanescent  mysticism  of  motion,  without  use, 
without  aim,  except  its  own  overflowing  and  all- 
sufficing  fascination.  But  when  a  man  dances,  it 
reminds  me  of  that  amusing  French  book  called 
"  Le  Diable  Boiteux,"  which  has  been  free-think- 
ingly  translated,  "  The  Devil  on  Two  Sticks." 
A  woman's  dancing' is  gliding,  swaying,  serpentine. 
A  man's  is  jerks,  hops,  convulsions,  and  acute 
angles.  The  woman  is  light,  airy,  indistinctly 
defined.  Airy  movements  are  in  keeping.  The 
man  is  sombre  in  hue,  grave  in  tone,  distinctly 
outlined ;  and  nothing  is  more  incongruous,  to  my 
thinking,  than  his  dancing.  The  feminine  drapery 
conceals  processes  and  gives  results.  The  mas- 
culine absence  of  drapery  reveals  processes,  and 
thereby  destroys  results. 

Once  upon  a  time,  long  before  the  Flood,  the 
clergyman  of  a  country- village,  possessed  with  such 
a  zeal  as  Paul  bore  record  of  concerning  Israel, 
conceived  it  his  duty  to  "  make  a  note  "  of  sundry 
young  members  of  his  flock  who  had  met  for  a 
drive  and  a  supper,  with  a  dance  fringed  upon  the 
outskirts.  The  fame  thereof  being  noised  abroad, 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  367 

a  sturdy  old  farmer,  with  a  good  deal  of  shrewd 
sense  and  mother-wit  In  his  brains,  and  a  fine,  in- 
direct way  of  hitting  the  nail  on  the  head  with 
a  side-stroke,  was  questioned  in  a  neighboring 
village  as  to  the  facts  of  the  case.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  surlily,  "  the  young  folks  had  a  party,  and 
got  up  a  dance,  and  the  minister  was  mad,  —  and 
I  don't  blame  him,  —  he  thinks  nobody  has  any 
business  to  dance,  unless  he  knows  how  better 
than  they  did  J  "  It  was  a  rather  different  casus 
belli  from  that  which  the  worthy  clergyman  would 
have  preferred  before  a  council ;  but  it  "  meets  my 
views  "  precisely  as  to  the  validity  of  the  objections 
urged  against  dancing.  I  would  have  women 
dance,  and  women  only,  because  it  is  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world.  And  I  think  my 
views  are  Scriptural,  for  I  find  that  it  was  the 
virgins  of  Israel  that  were  to  go  forth  in  the 
dances  of  them  that  make  merry.  It  was  the 
daughters  of  Shiloh  that  went  out  to  dance  in 
dances  at  the  feast  of  the  Lord  on  the  south  of 
Lebonah. 

From  my  window  overlooking  the  green,  I  was 
led  away  into  some  one  or  other  of  the  several 
hails  to  see  the  "  round  dances  "  ;  and  it  was  like 
going  from  Paradise  to  Pandemonium.  From 
the  pure  and  healthy  lawn,  all  the  purer  for  the 
pure  and  peaceful  people  pleasantly  walking  up 
and  down  in  the  sunshine  and  shade,  or  grouped 
in  the  numerous  windows,  like  bouquets  of  rare 


368  SIDE-GLANCES 

tropical  flowers,  —  from  the  green,  rainbowed  in 
vivid  splendor,  and  alive  with  soft,  tranquil  mo- 
tion, fair  forms,  and  the  flutter  of  beautiful  and 
brilliant  colors,  —  from  the  green,  sanctified  al- 
ready by  the  pale  faces  of  sick,  and  wounded,  and 
maimed  soldiers  who  had  gone  out  from  the  shad- 
ows of  those  sheltering  trees  to  draw  the  sword 
for  country,  and  returned  white  wraiths  of  then 
vigorous  youth,  the  sad  vanguard  of  that  great 
army  of  blessed  martyrs  who  shall  keep  forever  in 
the  mind  of  this  generation  how  costly  and  pre- 
cious a  thing  is  liberty,  who  shall  lift  our  worldly 
age  out  of  the  slough  of  its  material  prosperity  into 
the  sublimity  of  suffering  and  sacrifice,  —  from 
suggestions,  and  fancies,  and  dreamy  musing,  and 
"  phantasms  sweet,"  into  the  hall,  where,  for 
flower-scented  summer  air  were  thick  clouds  of 
fine,  penetrating  dust ;  and  for  lightly  trooping 
fairies,  a  jam  of  heated  human  beings,  so  that 
you  shall  hardly  come  nigh  the  dancers  for  the 
press ;  and  when  you  have,  with  difficulty,  and 
many  contortions,  and  much  apologizing,  thread- 
ed the  solid  mass,  piercing  through  the  forest 
of  fans,  —  what  ?  An  enclosure,  but  no  more 
illusion. 

Waltzing  is  a  profane  and  vicious  dance.  When 
it  is  prosecuted  in  the  centre  of  a  great  crowd,  in 
a  dusty  hall,  on  a  warm  midsummer  day,  it  is  also 
a  disgusting  dance.  Night  is  its  only  appropriate 
time.  The  blinding,  dazzling  gas-light  throws  a 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  369 

grateful  glare  over  the  salient  points  of  its  inde- 
cency, and  blends  the  whole  into  a  wild  whirl  that 
dizzies  and  dazes  one  ;  but  the  uncompromising 
afternoon,  pouring  in  through  manifold  windows, 
tears  away  every  illusion,  and  reveals  the  whole 
coarseness  and  commonness  and  all  the  repulsive 
details  of  this  most  alien  and  unmaidenly  revel. 
The  very  pose  of  the  dance  is  profanity.  Atti- 
tudes which  are  the  instinctive  expression  of  inti- 
mate emotions,  glowing  rosy-red  in  the  auroral 
time  of  tenderness,  and  justified  in  unabashed 
freedom  only  by  a  long  and  faithful  habitude  of 
unselfish  devotion,  are  here  openly,  deliberately, 
and  carelessly  assumed  by  people  who  have  but 
a  casual  and  partial  society-acquaintance.  This 
I  reckon  profanity.  This  is  levity  the  most  cul- 
pable. This  is  a  guilty  and  wanton  waste  of 
delicacy.  That  it  is  practised  by  good  girls  and 
tolerated  by  good  mothers  does  not  prove  that  it 
is  good.  Custom  blunts  the  edge  of  many  per- 
ceptions. A  good  thing  soiled  may  be  redeemed 
by  good  people  ;  but  waltz  as  many  as  you  may, 
spotless  maidens,  you  will  only  smut  yourselves, 
and  not  cleanse  the  waltz.  It  is  of  itself  un- 
clean. 

There  were,  besides,  peculiar  desagr£ments  on 
this  occasion.  As  I  said,  there  was  no  illusion,  — 
not  a  particle.  It  was  no  Vale  of  Tempe,  with 
Nymphs  and  Apollos.  The  boys  were  boys, 
young,  full  of  healthful  promise,  but  too  much 

16*  X 


370  SIDE-GLANCES 

in  the  husk  for  exhibition,  and  hot  entirely  at 
ease  in  their  situation,  —  indeed,  very  much  not 
at  ease,  —  unmistakably  warm,  nervous,  and  un- 
comfortable. The  girls  were  pretty  enough  girls, 
I  dare  say,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  —  one 
was  really  lovely,  with  soft  cheeks,  long  eyelashes, 
eyes  deep  and  liquid,  and  Tasso's  gold  in  her  hair, 
though  of  a  bad  figure,  ill  set  off  by  a  bad  dress,  — • 
but  Venus  herself  could  not  have  been  seen  to 
advantage  in  such  evil  plight  as  they,  panting, 
perspiring,  ruffled,  frowzy,  —  puff-balls  revolving 
through  an  atmosphere  of  dust,  —  a  maze  of  steam- 
ing, reeking  human  couples,  inhumanly  heated  and 
simmering  together  with  a  more  than  Spartan  for- 
titude. 

It  was  remarkable,  and  at  the  same  time  amus- 
ing, to  observe  the  difference  in  the  demeanor  of 
the  two  sexes.  The  lions  and  the  fawns  seemed 
to  have  changed  hearts,  —  perhaps  they  had.  It 
was  the  boys  that  were  nervous.  The  girls  were 
unquailing.  The  boys  were,  however,  heroic. 
They  tried  bravely  to  hide  the  fox  and  his  gnaw- 
ings ;  but  traces  were  visible.  They  made  des- 
perate feint  of  being  at  the  height  of  enjoyment 
and  unconscious  of  spectators ;  but  they  had  much 
modesty,  for  all  that.  The  girls  threw  themselves 
into  it  pugnis  et  calcibus,  —  unshrinking,  indefati- 
gable. Did  I  say  that  it  was  amusing  ?  I  should 
rather  say  that  it  was  painful.  Can  it  be  any- 
thing but  painful  to  see  young  girls  exhibiting  the 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  371 

hardihood  of  the  "  professional "  without  the  ex- 
tenuating necessity  ? 

There  is  another  thing  which  girls  and  their 
mothers  do  not  seem  to  consider.  The  present 
mode  of  dress  renders  waltzing  almost  as  objec- 
tionable in  a  large  room  as  the  boldest  feats  of  a 
French  ballet-dancer. 

If  the  title  of  my  article  do  not  sufficiently 
indicate  the  depth  and  breadth  of  knowledge  on 
which  my  opinions  assume  to  be  based,  let  me, 
that  I  may  not  seem  to  claim  confidence  upon 
false  pretences,  confess  that  I  have  never  seen, 
either  in  this  country  or  abroad,  any  ballet-dancer 
or  any  dancer  on  any  stage.  I  do  not  suppose 
that  I  have  ever  been  at  any  assembly  where 
waltzing  was  a  part  of  the  amusements  half  a 
dozen  times  in  my  life,  and  never  in  the  daytime, 
until  upon  this  occasion.  I  also  admit  that  the 
sensations  with  which  one  would  look  upon  this 
performance  at  Harvard  would  depend  very  much 
upon  whether  one  went  to  it  from  that  end  of 
society  which  begins  at  the  Jardin  Mabille,  or 
that  which  begins  at  a  New  England  farm-house. 
I  speak  from  the  stand-point  of  the  New  England 
farm-house.  "Whether  that  or  the  Jardin  Mabille 
is  nearer  the  stand-point  of  the  Bible,  every  one 
must  decide  for  himself.  When  I  say  "  this  is 
right,  this  is  wrong,"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  under- 
stood as  settling  the  question  for  others,  but  as 
expressing  my  own  strongest  conviction.  When 


372  SIDE-GLANCES 

I  say  that  the  present  mode  of  dress  renders 
waltzing  almost  as  objectionable  in  a  large  room 
as  the  boldest  feats  of  a  French  ballet-dancer,  I 
mean  that,  from  what  I  have  heard  and  read  of 
ballet-dancers,  I  judge  that  these  girls  gyrating  in 
the  centre  of  their  gyrating  and  unmanageable 
hoops,  cannot  avoid,  or  do  not  know  how  to  avoid, 
at  any  rate  do  not  avoid,  the  exposure  which  the 
short  skirts  of  the  ballet-dancer  are  intended  to 
make,  and  which,  taking  to  myself  all  the  shame 
of  both  the  prudery  and  the  coarseness  if  I  am 
wrong,  I  call  an  indecent  exposure.  In  the  glare 
and  glamour  of  gas-light,  it  is  flash  and  clouds 
and  ^indistinctness.  In  the  broad  and  honest  day- 
light it  is  not.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know  that  I  will 
say  "  almost."  Anything  which  tends  to  remove 
from  woman  her  sanctity  is  not  only  almost,  but 
altogether  objectionable.  Questionable  action  is 
often  consecrated  by  holy  motive,  and  there,  even 
mistake  is  not  fatal ;  but  in  this  thing  is  no  noble 
principle  to  neutralize  practical  error. 

I  do  not  speak  thus  about  waltzing  because  I 
like  to  say  it ;  but  ye  have  compelled  me.  If  one 
member  suffers,  all  the  members  suffer  with  it. 
I  , respect  and  revere  woman,  and  I  cannot  see 
her  destroying  or  debasing  the  impalpable  fra- 
grance and  delicacy  of  her  nature  without  feeling 
the  shame  and  shudder  in  my  own  heart.  Great 
is  my  boldness  of  speech  towards  you,  because 
great  is  my  glorying  of  you.  Though  I  speak  as 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  373 

a  fool,  yet  as  a  fool  receive  me.  My  opinions 
may  be  rustic.  They  are  at  least  honest ;  and 
may  it  not  be  that  the  first  fresh  impressions  of 
an  unprejudiced  and  uninfluenced  observer  are  as 
likely  to  be  natural  and  correct  views  as  those 
which  are  the  result  of  many  after-thoughts,  long 
use,  and  an  experience  of  multifold  fascinations, 
combined  with  the  original  producing  cause  ?  My 
opinions  may  be  wrong,  but  they  will  do  no 
harm ;  the  penalty  will  rest  alone  on  me :  while, 
if  they  are  right,  they  may  serve  as  a  nail  or  two 
to  be  fastened  by  the  masters  of  assemblies. 

O  girls,  I  implore  you  to  believe  me  !  They 
are  not  your  true  friends  who  would  persuade  you 
that  you  can  permit  this  thing  with  impunity.  It 
is  not  they  who  best  know  your  strength,  your 
power,  your  possibilities.  It  is  not  they  who  pay 
you  the  truest  homage.  Believe  me,  for  it  is  not 
possible  that  I  can  have  any  but  the  highest  mo- 
tive. If  the  evil  of  foreign  customs  is  to  be  incor- 
porated into  American  society,  if  foul  freedom  of 
manners  is  to  defile  our  pure  freedom  of  life,  if  the 
robes  of  our  refinement  are  to  be  white  only  when 
relieved  against  the  dark  background  revealed  by 
the  polluted  stage  of  a  corrupt  metropolis,  on  you 
will  fall  the  burden  of  the  consequences.  Believe 
me,  for  your  weal  and  mine  are  one.  Your  glory 
is  my  glory.  Your  degradation  is  mine.  There 
are  honeyed  words  whose  very  essence  is  insult. 
There  are  bold  and  bitter  words  whose  roots  lie 


374  SIDE-GLANCES 

in  the  deepest  reverence.  Beware  of  the  leaven 
of  the  Pharisees  and  of  the  Sadducees.  Beware 
of  the  honor  which  is  dishonor. 

I  hear  that  the  ground  is  taken  that  the  affairs 
of  Class-Day  are  not  a  legitimate  subject  of  pub- 
lic comment ;  that  it  is  a  private  matter  of  the 
Senior  Class,  of  which  one  has  no  more  right 
to  speak  in  print  than  one  has  so  to  speak  of  a 
house  in  Beacon  Street  to  which  one  might  be 
invited.  Is  it  indeed  so?  I  have  no  right  to 
go  into  Mr.  Smith's  house  in  Beacon  Street,  —  I 
use  the  term  Smith  as  simply  generic,  not  mean- 
ing to  imply  for  a  moment  that  so  plebeian  a 
name  ever  marred  a  Beacon  Street  door-plate,  — 
and  subsequently  print  that  I  was  hospitably  en- 
treated, or  that  the  chair-covers  were  faded  and 
the  conversation  brilliant.  Neither  have  I  any 
right  to  go  into  Master  Jones's  room,  in  Hollis 
Hall,  and  inform  the  public  that  he  keeps  wine 
in  his  cigar-box,  and  that  he.  entertained  his 
friends  awkwardly  or  gracefully.  But  suppose 
all  the  Beacon  Street  families  have  a  custom  of 
devoting  one  day  of  every  year  to  festivities,  in 
which  festivities  all  Boston,  and  all  the  Friends, 
and  the  friends'  friends,  whom  each  Beacon  Street 
family  chooses  to  invite,  are  incited  to  partake. 
The  Common,  and  the  State-House,  and  the 
Music-Hall,  &c.  are  set  apart  for  dancing,  the 
houses  are  given  up  to  feasting,  —  and  this  occurs 
year  after  year.  Is  it  a  strictly  private  affair? 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY,  375 

I  have  still  no  right  to  denounce  or  applaud  or 
in  any  way  characterize  Mr.  Smith's  special  ar- 
rangements ;  but  have  I  not  a  right  to  discuss 
in  the  most  public  manner  the  general  features 
of  the  custom?  May  I  not  say  that  I  consider 
the  feasting  a  possible  danger,  and  the  dancing 
a  certain  evil,  and  assign  my  reasons  for  these 
opinions  ? 

I  have  spoken  of  the  condition  of  some  of  the 
College  buildings.  I  find  in  the  College  records 
repeated  instances  of  the  College  authorities  ap- 
pealing to  the  public  concerning  this  very  thing. 
So  early  as  1651,  the  Rev.  Henry  Dunster,  Presi- 
dent of  the  College,  represented  to  the  Com- 
missioners of  the  United  Colonies  the  decaying 
condition  of  the  College  buildings,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  their  repair  and  enlargement :  and  the  Com- 
missioners reply,  that  they  will  recommend  to  the 
Colonies  to  give  some  yearly  help,  by  pecks, 
half-bushels,  and  bushels  of  wheat.  Is  a  subject 
that  is  brought  before  Congress  improper  to  be 
brought  before  the  public  in  a  magazine  ? 

I  have  spoken  of  the  banqueting  arranged  by 
the  Senior  Class.  Is  that  private  ?  I  find  in  a 
book  regularly  printed  and  published,  a  book 
written  by  a  former  President  of  the  College, 
—  a  man  whom  no  words  of  mine  can  affect,  yet 
fvhom  I  cannot  pass  without  laying  at  his  feet 
tny  tribute  of  gratitude  and  reverence ;  a  man 
tv-ho  lives  to  receive  from  his  contemporaries  the 


376  SIDE-GLANCES 

honors  which  are  generally  awarded  only  by  pos- 
terity,—  I  find  in  this  book  accounts  of  votes 
passed  by  the  Corporation  and  Overseers,  pro- 
hibiting Commencers  from  "  preparing  or  provid- 
ing either  plum-cake,  or  roasted,  boiled,  or 
baked  meats,  or  pies  of  any  kind "  ;  and  after- 
wards, if  any  one  should  do  anything  contrary 
to  this  act,  or  "go  about  to  evade  it  by  plain 
cake,  they  shall  not  be  admitted  to  their  degree  "  ; 
and  also,  "  that  commons  be  of  better  quality, 
have  more  variety,  clean  table-cloths  of  conven- 
ient length  and  breadth  twice  a  week,  and  that 
plates  be  allowed."  Now  if  the  plum-cake  and 
pies  of  the  "  Commencers  "  are  spread  before  the 
public,  how  shall  one  know  that  the  plum-cake 
and  pies  of  an  occasion  at  least  equally  public, 
and  only  a  month  beforehand,  must  not  be  men- 
tioned? If  any  family  in  Beacon  Street  should 
publish  its  housekeeping  rules  and  items  in  this 
unhesitating  manner,  I  think  a  very  pardonable 
confusion  of  ideas  might  exist  as  to  what  was 
legitimately  public,  and  what  must  be  held  pri- 
vate. If  it  be  said  that  these  items  concern  a 
period  from  which  the  many  years  that  have 
since  elapsed  remove  the  seal  of  silence,  I  have 
but  to  turn  to  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser,  a 
journal  whose  taste  and  judgment  are  unques- 
tionable, and  find  in  its  issue  of  July  18,  1863, 
eight  closely  printed  columns  devoted  to  a  minute 
description  of  what  they  said,  and  what  they  did, 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  377 

at  the  College  festival  arranged  by  the  Associa- 
tion of  the  Alumni,  in  which  description  may 
be  read  such  eminently  private  incidents  as  that 
—  by  some  unfortunate  mistake,  which  would  have 
been  a  death-blow  to  any  Beacon  Street  house- 
keeper —  there  were  one  hundred  more  guests  than 
there  were  plates,  and  —  what  it  might  be  hoped 
would  be  quite  unnecessary  to  state  —  that  the  un- 
lucky De  Irop  "  bore  the  disappointment  with  the 
most  admirable  good-breeding,  and  retired  from 
the  hall  without  noise  or  disturbance.''''  (Noble 
army  of  martyrs !  Let  a  monument  more  dura- 
ble than  brass  rise  in  the  hearts  of  their  country- 
men to  commemorate  their  heroism,  and  let  it 
be  graven  all  over,  in  characters  of  living  light, 
with  the  old-time  query,  "  Why  did  n't  Jack  eat 
his  supper  ?  ") 

I  find  also  in  the  same  issue  of  the  same  paper 
the  Commencement  Dinner,  its  guests,  its  quan- 
tity and  quality,  its  talk,  its  singing  of  songs, 
and  giving  of  gifts,  spread  before  the  public.  If, 
now,  the  festivities  of  Commencement  and  of  the 
Alumni  Association  are  public,  by  what  token 
shall  one  know  that  the  festivities  of  Class-Day, 
which  have  every  appearance  of  being  just  as 
public,  are  in  reality  a  family  affair,  and  strictly 
private  ? 

I  have  spoken  of  waltzing.  The  propriety  of 
my  speaking  must  stand  or  fall  with  the  previous 
count.  But  in  the  book  to  which  I  have  before 


378  *  SIDE-GLANCES 

referred  is  recorded  a  vote  passed  by  the  Over- 
seers, "  To  restrain  unsuitable  and  unseasonable 
dancing  in  the  College."  If  a  rule  of  the  College 
is  published  throughout  the  land,  is  not  the  land 
in  some  measure  appealed  to,  and  may  it  not 
speak  when  it  thinks  it  sees  a  custom  in  open  and 
systematic  violation  of  the  rule  ? 

But,  independent  of  this  special  rule,  Harvard 
College  was  founded  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Colony.  It  was  the  pet  and  pride  and  hope  of  the 
colonists.  They  gave  to  it  of  their  abundance 
and  their  poverty.  To  what  end  ?  "  Dreading 
to  leave  an  illiterate  ministry  to  the  churches," 
says  the  author  of  "  New  England  First-Fruits." 
The  first  Constitution  of  the  College  declares  one 
of  its  objects  to  be  u  to  make  and  establish  all 
such  orders,  statutes,  and  constitutions  as  they 
shall  see  necessary  for  the  instituting,  guiding, 
and  furthering  of  the  said  College,  and  the  sev- 
eral members  thereof,  from  time  to  time,  in  piety, 
morality,  and  learning."  Later,  its  objects  are 
said  to  be  "  the  advancement  of  all  good  litera- 
ture, arts,  and  sciences,"  and  "  the  education  of 
the  English  and  Indian  youth  of  this  country  in 
knowledge  and  godliness.""  Of  the  rules  of  the 
College,  one  is,  "  Let  every  student  be  earnestly 
pressed  to  consider  well  the  main  end  of  his  life  and 
studies  is,  to  know  God  and  Jesus  Christ,  which 
is  eternal  life,  and,  therefore,  to  lay  Christ  in  the 
bottom,  as  the  only  foundation  of  all  sound  knowl- 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  379 

edge  and  learning."  Quincy  says  that  to  the 
Congregational  clergy  the  "  institution  is  perhaps 
more  indebted  than  to  any  other  class  of  men 
for  early  support,  if  not  for  existence."  That  it 
has  not  avowedly  turned  aside  from  its  original 
object  is  indicated  by  the  motto  which  it  still 
bears,  Christo  et  Ecclesioe.  Now  I  wish  to  know 
if  the  official  sanction  of  this  College,  founded 
by  statesmen-clergy  for  the  promotion  of  piety 
and  learning,  to  further  the  welfare  of  the  State, 
consecrated  to  Christ  and  the  Church,  is  to  be 
given  to  a  practice  which  no  one  will  maintain 
positively  conduces  to  either  piety  or  learning, 
but  which  many  believe  to  be  positively  detri- 
mental to  both,  and  which  an  overwhelming  ma- 
jority of  the  clergy  who  founded  the  College, 
and  of  their  ecclesiastical  descendants  at  the  pres- 
ent day,  would,  I  am  confident,  condemn,  and  yet 
it  is  not  to  be  publicly  spoken  of,  because  it  is 
a  private  affair  I  Has  it  any  right  to  privacy  ? 
Does  the  College  belong  to  a  Senior  Class,  or  to 
the  State  ?  Have  the  many  donations  been  given, 
and  the  appropriations  been  made,  for  the  pleas- 
ure or  even  profit, of  any  one  class,  or  for  the 
whole  Commonwealth  ?  Has  any  class  any  right 
to  introduce  in  any  College  hall,  or  anywhere,  as 
a  College  class,  with  the  sanction  of  the  Faculty, 
a  custom  which  is  entirely  disconnected  with 
either  learning  or  piety,  a  custom  of  doubtful  pro- 
priety, not  to  say  morality,  inasmuch  as  many 


380  SIDE-GLANCES 

believe  it  to  be  wrong,  and  a  custom,  therefore, 
whose  tendency  is  to  weaken  confidence  in  the 
College,  and  consequently  to  restrict  its  benefi- 
cence ?  And  is  the  discussion  of  this  thing  a 
violation  of  the  rites  of  hospitality  ? 

These  are  my  counts  against  "  Class-Day,"  as 
it  is  now  conducted.  It  contains  much  that  is 
calculated  to  promote  neither  learning  nor  god- 
liness, but  to  retard  both.  Neither  literary  nor 
moral  excellence  seems  to  enter  as  an  element 
into  its  standard.  In  point  of  notoriety  and  popu- 
lar interest  it  seems  to  me  to  reach,  if  not  to  over- 
top, Commencement-Day,  and  therefore  it  tends  to 
subordinate  scholarship  to  other  and  infinitely  less 
important  matters.  It  in  a  manner  necessitates 
an  expenditure  which  many  are  ill  able  to  bear, 
and  under  which,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  many 
parents  do  groan,  being  burdened.  It  has  not  the 
pleasure  and  warmth  of  reunion  to  recommend  it, 
for  it  precedes  separation.  The  expense  is  not 
incurred  by  men  who  are  masters  of  their  own 
career,  who  know  where  they  stand  and  what 
they  can  do ;  but  chiefly  by  boys  who  are  depend- 
ent upon  others,  and  whose  knowledge  of  ways 
and  means  is  limited,  while  their  knowledge  of 
wants  is  deep  and  pressing  and  aggressive.  It  iy 
an  extraordinary  and  unnecessary  expense,  com- 
ing in  the  midst  of  ordinary  and  necessary  ex- 
pense, while  the  question  of  reimbursement  is  still 
entirely  in  abeyance.  It  launches  young  men  at 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  381 

the  outset  of  their  career  into  extravagance  and 
display,  —  limited  indeed  in  range,  but  rampant 
within  that  range,  —  and  thereby  throws  the  in- 
fluence of  highest  authority  in  favor  of,  rather 
than  against,  that  reckless  profusion,  display,  and 
dissipation  which  is  the  weakness  and  the  bane 
of  our  social  life.  It  signalizes  in  a  marked  and 
public  manner  the  completion  of  the  most  varied 
and  thorough  course  of  study  in  the  country,  and 
the  commencement  of  a  career  which  should  be 
the  most  noble  and  beneficial,  not  by  peculiar  and 
appropriate  ceremonies,  but  by  the  commonest 
rites  of  the  lecture-room  and  ball-room ;  and  I 
cannot  but  think  that,  especially  at  this  period  of 
our  history,  when  no  treasure  is  esteemed  too 
precious  for  sacrifice,  and  the  land  is  red  with  the 
blood  of  her  best  and  bravest,  —  when  Harvard 
herself  mourns  for  her  children  lost,  but  glories  in 
her  heroes  fallen,  —  that  the  most  obvious  and 
prominent  customs  of  Class-Day  would  be  more 
honored  in  the  breach  than  in  the  observance. 

I  look  upon  the  violation  of  hospitality  as  one 
of  the  seven  deadly  sins,  —  a  sin  for  which  no 
punishment  is  too  great ;  but  this  sin  I  have  not 
consciously,  and  I  do  not  think  I  have  actually, 
committed.  I  cannot  but  suspect,  that,  if  I  had 
employed  the  language  of  exclusive  eulogy,  —  such 
language  as  is  employed  at  and  concerning  the 
Commencement  dinners  and  the  Alumni  dinners, 
—  I  might  have  described  the  celebration  of  Class- 


382  SIDE-GLANCES 

Day  with  much  more  minuteness  than  I  have  at- 
tempted to  do,  and  should  have  heard  no  com- 
plaints of  violated  hospitality.  This  I  would  gladly 
have  done,  had  it  been  possible.  As  it  was  not,  I 
have  pointed  out  those  features  which  seemed  to 
me  objectionable,  —  certainly  with  no  design  so 
ridiculous  as  that  of  setting  up  myself  against 
Harvard  University,  but  equally  certainly  with  no 
heart  so  craven  as  to  shrink  from  denouncing  what 
seemed  to  me  wrong  because  it  would  be  setting 
myself  against  Harvard  University.  Opinions 
must  be  judged  by  their  own  weight,  not  by  the 
weight  of  the  persons  who  utter  them.  The  fair 
fame  of  Harvard  is  the  possession  of  every  son 
and  daughter  of  Massachusetts,  and  the  least  stain 
that  mars  her  escutcheon  is  the  sorrow  of  all.  But 
Harvard  is  not  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  to  be 
touched  only  by  consecrated  hands,  upon  penalty 
of  instant  death;  She  is  honorable,  but  not  sacred ; 
wise,  but  not  infallible.  To  Christo  et  JZcclesice,  she 
has  a  right ;  to  Noli  me  tangere,  she  has  none.  A 
very  small  hand  may  hurl  an  arrow.  If  it  is 
heaven-directed,  it  may  pierce  in  between  the 
joints  of  the  armor.  If  not,  it  may  rebound  upon 
the  archer.  I  make  the  venture,  promising  that 
I  shall  not  follow  the  example  of  that  President 
of  Harvard  who  died  of  a  broken  heart,  because, 
according  to  Cotton  Mather,  he  "fell  under  the 
displeasure  of  certain  good  men  who  made  a  figure 
in  tltat  neighborhood" 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  383 

As  it  may  never  again  happen  to  me  to  be  writ- 
ing about  colleges,  I  desire  to  say  in  this  paper 
everything  I  have  to  say  on  the  subject,  and 
therefore  take  this  opportunity  to  refer  to  the 
practice  of  "  hazing,"  although  it  is  but  remotely 
connected  with  Class-Day.  If  we  should  find  it 
among  hinds,  a  remnant  of  the  barbarisms  of  the 
Dark  Ages,  blindly  handed  down  by  such  slow- 
growing  people  as  go  to  mill  with  their  meal  on 
one  side  of  the  saddle  and  a  stone  on  the  other  to 
balance,  as  their  fathers  did,  because  it  never 
occurred  to  them  to  divide  the  meal  into  two 
parcels  and  make  it  balance  itself,  we  should 
not  be  surprised ;  but  "  hazing  "  occurs  among 
boys  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  circulation 
of  ideas,  boys  old  enough  and  intelligent  enough 
to  understand  the  difference  between  brutality 
and  frolic,  old  enough  to  know  what  honor  and 
courage  mean,  and  therefore  I  cannot  conceive 
how  they  should  countenance  a  practice  which 
entirely  ignores  and  defies  honor,  and  which 
has  not  a  single  redeeming  feature.  It  has  nei- 
ther wisdom  nor  wit,  no  spirit,  no  genius,  no 
impulsiveness,  scarcely  boyish  mirth.  A  nar- 
row range  of  stale  practical  jokes,  lighted  up 
by  no  gleam  of  originality,  seems  to  be  trans- 
mitted from  year  to  year  with  as  much  fidelity 
as  the  Hebrew  Bible,  and  not  half  the  latitude 
allowed  to  clergymen  of  the  English  Established 
Church.  But  besides  its  platitude,  its  one  over- 


384  SIDE-GLANCES 

powering  and  fatal  characteristic  is  its  intense  and 
essential  cowardice.  Cowardice  is  its  head  and 
front  and  bones  and  blood.  One  boy  does  not  sin- 
gle out  another  boy  of  his  own  weight,  and  take  his 
chances  in  a  fair  stand-up  fight.  But  a  party  of 
Sophomores  club  together  in  such  numbers  as  to 
render  opposition  useless,  and  pounce  upon  their 
victim  unawares,  as  Brooks  and  his  minions 
pounced  upon  Sumner,  and  as  the  Southern  chiv- 
alry is  given  to  doing.  For  sweet  pity's  sake,  let 
this  mode  of  warfare  be  monopolized  by  the  South- 
ern chivalry. 

The  lame  excuse  is  offered,  that  it  does  the 
Freshmen  good,  —  takes  the  conceit  out  of  them. 
But  if  there  is  any  Class  in  College  so  divested  of 
conceit  as  to  be  justified  in  throwing  stones,  it  is 
surely  not  the  Sophomore  Class.  Moreover,  what- 
ever good  it  may  do  the  sufferers,  it  does  harm, 
and  only  harm,  to  the  perpetrators  ;  and  neither 
the  Law  nor  the  Gospel  requires  a  man  to  improve 
other  people's  characters  at  the  expense  of  his 
own.  Nobody  can  do  a  wrong  without  injuring 
himself;  and  no  young  man  can  do  a  mean,  cow- 
ardly wrong  like  this  without  suffering  severest 
injury.  It  is  the  very  spirit  of  the  slaveholder,  a 
dastardly  and  detestable,  a  tyrannical  and  cruel 
spirit.  If  young  men  are  so  blinded  by  custom 
and  habit  that  a  meanness  is  not  to  them  a  mean- 
ness because  it  has  been  practised  for  years,  so 
much  the  worse  for  the  young  men,  and  so  much 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  385 

the  worse  for  our  country,  whose  sweat  of  blood 
attests  the  bale  and  blast  which  this  evil  spirit  has 
wrought.  If  uprightness,  if  courage,  if  humanity 
and  rectitude  and  the  mind  conscious  to  itself  of 
right  are  anything  more  than  a  name,  let  the 
young  men  who  mean  to  make  time  minister  to 
life  scorn  this  debasing  and-  stupid  practice. 

Why,  as  one  resource  against  this,  as  well  as 
for  its  own  intrinsic  importance,  should  there  not 
be  a  military  department  to  every  college,  as  well 
as  a  mathematical  department  ?  Why  might  not 
every  college  be  a  military  normal  school,  so  that 
the  exuberance  and  riot  of  animal  spirits,  the 
young,  adventurous  strength  and  joy  in  being, 
might  not  only  be  kept  from  striking  out  as  now 
in  illegitimate,  unworthy,  and  hurtful  directions, 
but  might  become  the  very  basis  and  groundwork 
of  useful  purposes.  Such  exercise  would  be  so 
promotive  of  health  and  discipline,  it  would  so  train 
and  limber  the  physical  powers,  that  the  superior 
quality  of  study  would,  I  doubt  not,  more  than 
atone  for  whatever  deficiency  in  quantity  might 
result.  And  even  suppose  a  little  less  attention 
should  be  given  to  Euclid  and  Homer,  which  is  of 
the  greater  importance  now-a-days,  an  ear  that 
can  detect  a  false  quantity  in  a  Greek  verse,  or 
an  eye  that  can  sight  a  Rebel  nine  hundred  yards 
off,  and. a  hand  that  can  pull  a  trigger  and  shoot 
him  ?  Knowledge  is  power ;  but  knowledge  must 
sharpen  its  edges  and  polish  its  points,  if  it  would 


386  SIDE-GLANCES 

be  greatliest  available  in  days  like  these.  The 
knowledge  that  can  plant  batteries  and  plan  cam- 
paigns, that  is  fertile  in  expedients  and  wise  to 
baffle  the  foe,  is  just  now  the  strongest  power. 
Diagrams  and  first-aorists  are  good,  and  they  who 
have  fed  on  such  meat  have  grown  great,  and 
done  the  state  service  in  their  generation  ;  but 
these  times  demand  new  measures  and  new  men. 
It  is  conceded  that  we  shall  probably  be  for  many- 
years  a  military  nation.  At  least  a  generation  of 
vigilance  shall  be  the  price  of  our  liberty.  And 
even  of  peace  we  can  have  no  stronger  assurance 
than  a  wise  and  wieldy  readiness  for  war.  But 
the  education  of  our  unwarlike  days  is  not  ade- 
quate to  the  emergencies  of  this  martial  hour.  We 
must  be  seasoned  with  something  stronger  than 
Attic  salt,  or  we  shall  be  cast  out  and  trodden 
under  foot  of  men.  True,  ah1  education  is  worthy. 
Everything  that  exercises  the  mind  fits  it  for  its 
work ;  but  professional  education  is  indispensable 
to  professional  men.  And  the  profession,  par  ex- 
cellence, of  every  man  of  this  generation  is  war. 
Country  overrides  all  personal  considerations. 
Lawyer,  minister,  what  not,  a  man's  first  duty  is 
the  salvation  of  his  country.  When  she  calls,  he 
must  go  ;  and  before  she  calls,  let  him,  if  possible, 
prepare  himself  to  serve  her  in  the  best  manner. 
As  things  are  now  at  Harvard,  college  boys  are 
scarcely  better  than  cow-boys  for  the  army.  Their 
costly  education  runs  greatly  to  waste.  It  gives 


AT  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY.  387 

them  no  direct  advantage  over  the  clod  who 
stumbles  against  a  trisyllable.  So  far  as  it  makes 
them  better  men,  of  course  they  are  better  sol- 
diers ;  but  for  all  of  military  education  which  their 
college  gives  them,  they  are  fit  only  for  privates, 
whose  sole  duty  is  to  obey.  They  know  nothing 
of  military  drill  or  tactics  or  strategy.  The  State 
cannot  afford  this  waste.  She  cannot  afford  to 
lose  the  fruits  of  mental  toil  and  discipline.  She 
needs  trained  mind  even  more  than  trained  mus- 
cle. It  is  harder  to  find  brains  than  to  find  hands. 
The  average  mental  endowment  may  be  no  higher 
in  college  than  out ;  but  granting  it  to  be  as  high, 
the  culture  which  it  receives  gives  it  immense 
advantage.  The  fruits  of  that  culture,  readiness, 
resources,  comprehensiveness,  should  all  be  held  in 
the  service  of  the  State.  Military  knowledge  and 
practice  should  be  imparted  and  enforced  to  utilize 
ability,  and  make  it  the  instrument,  not  only  of 
personal,  but  of  national  welfare.  That  education 
which  gives  men  the  advantage  over  others  in  the 
race  of  life  should  be  so  directed  as  to  convey  that 
advantage  to  country,  when  she  stands  in  need. 
Every  college  might  and  should  be  made  a  nur- 
sery of 'athletes  in  mind  and  body,  clear-eyed, 
stout-hearted,  strong-limbed,  cool-brained,  —  a 
nursery  of  soldiers,  quick,  self-possessed,  brave 
and  cautious  and  wary,  ready  in  invention,  skilful 
to  command  men  and  evolve  from  a  mob  an 
army,  —  a  nursery  of  gentlemen,  reminiscent  of 


338  HARVARD   CLASS-DAY. 

no  lawless  revels,  midnight  orgies,  brutal  outrages, 
launching  out  already  attainted  into  an  attainting 
world,  but  with  many  a  memory  of  adventure, 
wild,  it  may  be,  and  not  over- wise,  yet  pure  as 
a  breeze  from  the  hills,  —  banded  and  sworn 

"  To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable  words, 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man." 


SUCCESS   IN    LIFE 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 


THE  SUCCESSFUL. 

HERE  are  successes  more  melancholy 
than  any  failure.  There  are  failures 
more  noble  than  success.  The  man 
who  began  life  as  a  ploughboy,  who 
went  from  his  father's  farm  to  the  great  city  with 
his  wardrobe  tied  up  in  his  handkerchief,  and 
one  dollar  in  his  pocket,  and  who  by  application, 
economy,  and  forecast  has  amassed  a  fortune,  is 
not  necessarily  a  successful  man.  If  his  object 
was  to  amass  a  fortune,  he  is  so  far  successful ;  but 
it  is  a  mean  and  miserable  object,  and  his  life  would 
be  a  contemptible,  if  it  were  not  a  terrible,  failure. 
We  do  not  keep  this  sufficiently  in  mind.  Amer- 
ican society,  and  perhaps  all  society,  is  too  apt  to 
do  homage  to  material  prosperity ;  but  material 
prosperity  may  be  obtained  by  the  sacrifice  of  moral 
grandeur ;  and  so  obtained,  it  is  an  apple  of  Sodom. 
A  man  may  call  out  his  whole  energy,  wield  all  his 
power,  and  wealth  follow  as  one  of  the  results. 


392  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

This  is  well.  Wealth  may  even  be  an  object,  if  it 
be  a  subordinate  object,  —  the  servant  of  a  higher 
power.  Wealth  may  minister  to  the  best  part  of 
man,  —  but  only  minister,  not  master.  Only  as 
a  minister  it  deserves  regard.  When  it  usurps  the 
throne  and  becomes  monarch,  it  is  of  all  things 
most  pitiful  and  abject.  The  man  who  sets  out 
with  the  determination  to  be  rich  as  an  end,  sets 
out  with  a  very  ignoble  determination ;  and  he 
who  seeks  or  values  wealth  for  the  respect  which 
it  secures  and  the  position  it  gives,  is  not  very 
much  higher  in  the  scale ;  yet  such  people  are 
often  held  up  to  the  admiration  and  imitation  of 
American  youth  ;  and  oftener  still  have  those  men 
been  held  up  for  imitation  who,  whether  by  deter- 
mination or  drift,  had  become  rich,  and  whose  sole 
claim  to  distinction  was  that  they  had  become  rich. 
Again  and  again  I  have  seen  "  success "  which 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  brand  of  ignominy  rather 
than  the  stamp  of  worth,  —  the  epitaph  of  culture, 
if  not  of  character.  I  look  on  with  a  profound  and 
regretful  pity.  You  successful, — you!  with  half 
your  powers  lying  dormant,  —  you,  with  your  im- 
agination stifled,  your  conscience  unfaithful,  your 
chivalry  deadened  into  shrewdness,  your  religion 
a  thing  of  tithes  and  forms  ;  —  you  successful,  in 
whom  romance  has  died  out ;  to  whom  fidelity  and 
constancy  and  aspiration  are  nothing  but  a  voice ; 
who  remember  love  and  heroism  and  self-sacrifice 
only  as  the  vaporings  of  youth  ;  who  measure  priii- 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  393 

ciples  by  your  purse,  utility  by  your  using ;  who 
see  nothing  glorious  this  side  of  honesty ;  nothing 
terrible  in  the  surrender  of  faith  ;  nothing  degrad- 
ing that  is  not  amenable  to  the  law ;  nothing  in  your 
birthright  that  may  not  be  sold  for  a  mess  of  pot- 
tage, if  only  the  mess  be  large  enough,  and  the  pottage 
savory ;  — you  successful  ?  Is  this  success  ?  Then, 
indeed,  humanity  is  a  base  and  bitter  failure. 

It  is  not  necessary  that  a  man  should  be  a  rob- 
ber or  a  murderer,  in  order  to  degrade  himself. 
Without  defrauding  his  neighbor  of  a  cent,  without 
laying  himself  open  to  a  single  accusation  of  illegal- 
ity or  violence,  a  man  may  destroy  himself.  A  moral 
suicide,  he  kills  out  all  that  belongs  to  his  highest 
nature,  and  leaves  but  a  bare  and  battered  wreck 
where  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost  should  rise. 

"  Measure  not  the  work 
Until  the  day 's  out,  and  the  labor  done; 
Then  bring  your  gauges." 

Is  that  man  successful  who  trades  on  his  coun- 
try's necessities  ?  He,  not  a  politician,  nor  a  horse- 
jockey,  nor  a  footpad,  but  a  man  who  talks  of 
honor  and  integrity,  —  a  man  of  standing  and  in- 
fluence, whose  virtue  is  not  tempted  by  hunger, 
whose  life  has  been  such  that  he  may  be  supposed 
intelligently  to  comprehend  the  interests  which  are 
at  stake,  and  the  measures  which  should  be  taken 
to  secure  them,  —  is  he  successful  .because  he  ob- 
tains in  a  few  months,  by  the  perquisites  —  not 
illegal,  but  strained  to  the  extreme  verge  of  legal 
17* 


394  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

—  of  an  office,  — not  illegal,  but  accidental,  not  in 
the  line  of  promotion,  —  a  sum  of  money  which  the 
greatest  merit  and  the  highest  office  in  the  land 
cannot  claim  for  years  ?  He  is  shrewd.  He  under- 
stands his  business.  He  knows  the  ins  and  outs. 
He  can  manage  the  sharpers.  He  can  turn  an 
honest  penny,  and  a  good  many  of  them.  He 
need  not  refuse  to  do  himself  a  good  turn  Avith  his 
left  hand,  while  he  is  doing  his  country  a  good  turn 
with  his  right.  It  is  all  fair  and  aboveboard.  He 
does  the  business  assigned  him,  and  does  it  well. 
He  takes  no  more  compensation  than  the  law 
allows.  The  money  may  as  well  go  to  him  as  to 
shoddy  contractors,  Shylock  sutlers,  and  the  legion 
of  plebeian  rascals.  But  it  was  a  good  stroke.  It 
was  a  great  chance.  It  was  a  rare  success. 

O  wretched  failure  I  O  pitiful  abortion  !  O 
accursed  hunger  for  gold !  When  the  nation 
struggles  in  a  death-agony,  when  her  life-blood  is 
poured  out  from  hundreds  of  noble  hearts,  when 
men  and  women  and  children  are  sending  up  to  the 
Lord  the  incense  of  daily  sacrifice  in  her  behalf, 
and  we  know  not  yet  whether  prayer  and  effort, 
whether  faith  and  works,  shall  avail,  —  whether 
our  lost  birthright,  sought  carefully,  and  with 
tears,  shall  be  restored  to  us  once  more,  —  in  this 
solemn  and  awful  hour,  a  man  can  close  his  eyes 
and  ears  to  the  fearful  sights  and  great  signs  in  the 
heavens,  and,  stooping  earthward,  delve  with  his 
muck-rake  in  the  gutter  for  the  paltry  pennies ! 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  395 

A  man  ?  A  MAN  !  Is  this  manhood  ?  Is  this 
manliness  ?  Is  this  the  race  that  our  institutions 
engender?  Is  this  the  best  production  which  we 
have  a  right  to  expect  ?  Is  this  the  result  which 
Christianity  and  civilization  combine  to  offer  ?  Is 
this  the  advantage  which  the  nineteenth  century 
claims  over  its  predecessors  ?  Is  this  the  flower  of 
all  the  ages,  —  earth's  last,  best  gift  to  heaven? 

No,  —  no,  —  no,  —  this  is  a  changeling,  and  no 
child.  The  true  brother's  blood  cries  to  us  from 
Baltimore.  It  rings  out  from  the  East  where 
Winthrop  fell.  It  swells  up  from  the  West  with 
Lyon's  dirge.  And  all  along,  from  hill  and  valley 
and  river-depths,  where  the  soil  is  drenched,  and 
the  waters  are  reddened,  and  nameless  graves  are 
scattered,  —  cleaving  clearly  through  the  rattle  of 
musketry,  mingling  grandly  with  the  "  diapason 
of  the  cannonade,"  or  floating  softly  up  under  the 
silent  stars,  —  "the  thrilling,  solemn,  proud,  pa- 
thetic voice  "  ceases  not  to  cry  unto  us  day  and 
night;  its  echoes  linger  tenderly  and  tearfully 
around  every  hearth-stone,  and  vibrate  with  a 
royal  resonance  from  mountain  to  sea-shore.  The 
mother  bends  to  it  in  her  silent  watches.  The 
soldier,  tempest-tost,  hears  it  through  the  creak- 
ing cordage,  and  every  true  heart  knows  its  brother, 
and  takes  up  the  magnificent  strain,  —  victorious, 
triumphant,  exultant,  — 

"  Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  raori." 
Sweet  and  honorable  is  it  for  country  to  die. 


396  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 


THE  UNSUCCESSFUL. 

THE  unsuccessful  men  are  all  around  us  ;  and 
among  them  are  those  who  confound  all  distinctions 
set  up  by  society,  and  illustrate  the  great  law  of 
compensation  set  up  by  God,  cutting  society  at 
right  angles,  and  obtuse  angles,  and  acute  angles, 
unnoticed,  or  but  flippantly  mentioned  by  the 
careless,  but  giving  food  for  intimate  reflections  to 
those  for  whom  things  suggest  thoughts. 

Have  you  not  seen  them,  —  these  unsuccessful 
men?  —  men  who  seem  not  to  have  found  their 
niche,  but  are  always  on  somebody's  hands  for 
settlement,  or,  if  settled,  never  at  rest  ?  If  they 
are  poor,  their  neighbors  say,  Why  does  he  not 
learn  a  trade  ?  or,  Why  does  he  not  stick  to  his 
trade  ?  He  might  be  well  off,  if  he  were  not 
so  flighty.  He  has  a  good  head-piece,  but  he 
potters  rhymes ;  he  tricks  out  toy-engines  and 
knick-knacks ;  he  roams  about  the  woods  gather- 
ing snakes  and  toads ;  and  meanwhile  he  is  out  at 
the  elbows.  If  he  is  rich,  they  say,  Why  does  he 
not  make  a  career  ?  He  has  great  resources.  His 
brain  is  inexhaustible.  He  is  equipped  for  any 
emergency.  There  is  nothing  which  he  might  not 
attain,  if  he  would  only  apply  himself,  but  he  frit- 
ters himself  away.  He  sticks  to  nothing.  He 
touches  on  this,  that,  and  the  other,  and  falls  off. 

True,  O  Philosophers,  he  does  stick  to  nothing, 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  397 

but  condemn  him  not  too  harshly.  It  is  the  old 
difficulty  of  the  square  man  in  the  round  hole,  and 
the  round  man  in  the  square  hole.  They  never 
did  rest  easy  there  since  time  hegan,  and  never 
will.  Many  —  perhaps  the  greater  number — -of 
people  have  no  overmastering  inclination  for  any 
employment.  They  are  farmers  because  their  fa- 
thers were  before  them,  and  that  road  was  graded 
for  them,  —  or  shoemakers,  or  lawyers,  or  minis- 
ters, for  the  same  reason.  If  circumstances  had 
impelled  them  in  a  different  direction,  they  would 
have  gone  in  a  different  direction,  and  been  content. 
It  is  not  easy  for  them  to  conceive  that  a  man  is  an 
indifferent  lawyer,  because  his  raw  material  should 
have  been  worked  up  into  a  practical  engineer ;  or 
an  unthrifty  shoemaker,  because  he  is  a  statesman 
nipped  in  the  bud.  Yet  such  things  are.  Some- 
times these  men  are  gay,  giddy,  rollicking  fellows. 
Sometimes  their  faces  are  known  at  the  gaming- 
houses and  the  gin-palaces.  Sometimes  they  go 
down  quickly  to  a  dishonored  grave,  over  which 
Love  stands  bewildered,  and  weeps  her  unavailing 
tears.  Sometimes,  on  the  other  hand,  they  are 
gloomy,  sad,  silent.  Perhaps  they  are  morose. 
Worse  still,  they  are  whining,  fretful,  complaining. 
You  would  even  call  them  sour.  Often  they  are 
cynical  and  disagreeable.  But  be  not  too  hasty, 
too  sweeping,  too  clear-cut.  I  have  seen  such  men 
who  were  the  reverse  of  the  Pharisees.  Their 
faces  were  a  tombstone.  The  portals  of  their 


398  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

soul  were  guarded  by  lions  scarcely  chained.  But 
though  their  temple  had  no  Beautiful  Gate,  it  was 
none  the  less  a  temple,  consecrated  to  the  Most 
High.  Within  it,  day  and  night,  the  sacred  fire 
burned,  the  sacred  Presence  rested.  There,  hon- 
or, justice,  devotion,  and  all  heroic  virtues  dwelt. 
Thence  falsehood,  impurity,  profanity,  —  what- 
soever loveth  and  maketh  a  lie,  —  were  excluded. 
They  are  unsuccessful,  because  they  will  not  lower 
the  standard  which  their  youth  unfurled.  Its  folds 
float  high  above  them,  out  of  reach,  but  not  out  of 
sight,  nor  out  of  desire.  With  constant,  feet  they 
are  climbing  up  to  grasp  it.  You  do  not  see  it ; 
no,  and  you  never  will.  You  need  not  strain  your 
aching  eyes ;  but  they  see  it,  and  comfort  their 
weary  hearts  withal. 

These  men  may  receive  sympathy,  but  they  do 
not  need  pity.  They  are  a  thousand  times  more 
blessed  than  the  vulgarly  successful.  The  shell  is 
wrinkled,  and  gray,  and  ugly ;  but  within,  the  meat 
is  sweet  and  succulent.  Perhaps  they  will  never 
make  a  figure  in  the  world,  but 

"  True  happiness  abides  with  him  alone 
Who  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward  thought 
Can  still  suspect  and  still  revere  himself 
In  lowliness  of  mind." 

And  it  is  even  better  never  to  be  happy  than  to 
be  sordidly  happy.  It  is  better  to  be  nobly  dissatis- 
fied than  meanly  content.  A  splendid  sadness  is 
better  than  a  vile  enjoyment. 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  399 

I  hear  of  people  that  never  failed  in  anything 
they  undertook.  I  do  not  believe  in  them.  In 
the  first  place,  however,  I  do  not  believe  this  testi- 
mony is  true.  It  is  the  honest  false- witness,  it  is 
the  benevolent  slander  of  their  affectionate  and 
admiring  friends.  But  if  it  were  in  any  case  true, 
I  should  not  believe  in  the  man  of  whom  it  was 
affirmed.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  a  person  of 
elevated  character  should  not  attempt  many  things 
too  high  for  him.  He  finds  himself  set  down  in 
the  midst  of  life.  Earth,  air,  and  water,  his  own 
mind  and  heart,  the  whole  mental,  moral,  and  phys- 
ical world,  teem  with  mysteries.  He  is  surrounded 
with  problems  incapable  of  mortal  solution.  He 
must  grasp  many  of  them  and  be  foiled.  He  must 
attack  many  foes  and  be  repulsed.  He  may  be 
stupidly  blind,  or  selfish,  or  cowardly,  and  make 
no  endeavor,  —  in  which  case  he  will  of  cottrse  en- 
dure no  defeat.  If  he  sets  out  with  small  aims,  he 
may  accomplish  them ;  but  it  is  not  a  thing  to 
boast  of.  It  is  better  to  fall  below  a  high  standard 
than  to  come  up  to  a  low  one,  —  to  try  great  things 
and  fail,  than  to  try  only  small  ones  and  succeed. 
For  he  who  attempts  grandly  will  achieve  much, 
while  he  whose  very  desires  are  small  will  make 
but  small  acquisitions.  Of  course,  I  am  not  speak- 
ing now  of  definite,  mensurable  matters  of  fact,  in 
which  the  reverse  is  the  case.  Of  course,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  build  a  small  house  and  pay  for  it,  than  to 
build  a  palace  and  involve  yourself  in  debt.  It  is 


400  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

wiser  to  set  yourself  a  reasonable  task  and  perform 
it,  than  a  prodigious  one  and  do  nothing.  I  am 
endeavoring  to  present  only  one  side  of  a  truth 
which  is  many-sided,  —  and  that  side  is,  that  great 
deeds  are  done  by  those  who  aspire  greatly.  You 
may  not  attain  perfection,  but  if  you  strive  to  be 
perfect,  you  will  be  better  than  if  you  were  content 
to  be  as  good  as  your  neighbors.  You  are  not, 
perhaps,  the  world's  coming  man  ;  but  if  you  aim 
at  the  completest  possible  self-development,  you 
will  be  a  far  greater  man  than  if  your  only  aim  is 
to  keep  out  of  the  poor-house.  "  I  have  taken  all 
knowledge  to  be  my  province,"  said  Lord  Bacon. 
He  did  not  conquer;  he  could  not  even  overrun 
his  whole  province ;  but  he  made  vast  ini'oads,  — 
vaster  by  far  than  if  he  had  designed  only  to  oc- 
cupy a^garden-plot  in  the  Delectable  Land.  True 
greatness  is  a  growth,  and  not  an  accident.  The 
bud,  brought  into  light  and  warmth,  may  burst 
suddenly  into  flower ;  but  the  seed  must  have  been 
planted,  and  the  kindly  soil  must  have  wrapped 
it  about,  and  shade  and  shine  and  shower  must 
have  wrought  down  into  the  darkness,  and  nursed 
and  nurtured  the  tiny  germ.  The  touch  of  circum- 
stance may  reveal,  may  even  quicken,  but  cannot 
create,  nobility. 

This  I  reckon  to  be  success  in  life,  —  fitness, 
—  perfect  adaptation.  I  hold  him  successful,  and 
him  only,  who  has  found  or  conquered  a  position 
in  which  he  can  bring  himself  into  full  play.  Sue- 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  401 

cess  is  perfect  or  partial,  according  as  it  comes  up 
to,  or  falls  below,  this  standard.  But  entire  suc- 
cess is  rare  in  this  world.  Success,  in  business, 
success  in  ambition,  is  not  success  in  life,  though 
it  may  be  comprehended  in  it.  Very  few  are  the 
symmetrical  lives.  Very  few  of  us  are  working 
at  the  top  of  our  bent.  One  may  give  scope  to  his 
mechanical  invention,  but  his  pqetry  is  cramped. 
One  has  his  intellect  at  high  pressure,  but  the  fires 
are  out  under  his  heart.  One  is  the  bond-servant 
of  love,  and  Pegasus  becomes  a  dray-horse,  Apollo 
must  keep  the  pot  boiling,  and  Minerva  is  hurried 
with  the  fall  sewing.  So  we  go,  and  above  us  the 
sun  shines,  and  the  stars  throb ;  and  beneath  us 
the  snows,  and  the  flowers,  ancbthe  blind,  instinc- 
tive earth ;  and  over  all,  and  in  all,  God  blessed 
forever. 

Now,  then,  success  being  the  best  thing,  we  do 
•well  to  strive  for  it ;  but  success  being  difficult  to 
attain,  if  not  unattainable,  it  remains  for  us  to 
wring  from  our  failures  all  the  sap  and  sustenance 
and  succor  that  are  in  them,  if  so  be  we  may 
grow  thereby  to  a  finer  and  fuller  richness,  and 
hear  one  day  the  rapturous  voice  bid  us  come  up 
higher. 

And  be  it  remembered,  what  a  man  is,  not 
what  a  man  does,  is  the  measure  of  success.  The 
deed  is  but  the  outflow  of  the  soul.  By  their 
fruits  ye  shall  know  them.  The  outward  act  has 
its  inward  significance,  though  we  may  not  always 


402  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

interpret  it  aright,  and  its  moral  aspect  depends 
upon  the  agent.  "  In  vain,"  says  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  "  we  admire  the  lustre  of  anything  seen  ; 
that  which  is  truly  glorious  is  invisible."  Charac- 
ter, not  condition,  is  the  trust  of  life.  A  man's 
own  self  is  God's  most  valuable  deposit  with  him. 
This  is  not  egotism,  but  the  broadest  benevolence. 
A  man  can  do  no  good  to  the  world  beyond  him- 
self. A  stream  can  rise  no  higher  than  its  fountain. 
A  corrupt  tree  cannot  bring  forth  good  fruit.  If 
a  man's  soul  is  stunted  and  gnarled  and  dwarfed, 
his  actions  will  be.  If  his  soul  is  corrupt  and 
base  and  petty,  so  will  his  actions  be.  Faith  is 
the  basis  of  works.  Essence  underlies  influence. 
If  a  man  beget  ^n  hundred  children,  and  live 
many  years,  and  his  soul  be  not  filled  with  good, 
I  say  that  an  untimely  birth  is  better  than  he. 

When  I  see,  as  I  sometimes  do  see,  those  whom 
the  world  calls  unsuccessful,  furnished  with  every 
virtue  and  adorned  with  every  grace,  made  con- 
siderate through  suffering,  sympathetic  by  isola- 
tion, spiritedly  patient,  meek,  yet  defiant,  calm 
and  contemptuous,  tender  even  of  the  sorrows  and 
tolerant  of  the  joys  which  they  despise,  enduring 
the  sympathy  and  accepting  the  companionship  of 
weakness  because  it  is  kindly  offered,  though  it  be 
a  burden  to  be  dropped  just  inside  the  door,  and 
not  a  treasure  to  be  taken  into  the  heart's  cham- 
ber, —  I  am  ready  to  say,  Blessed  are  the  unsuc- 
cessful. 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  403 

Blessed  are  the  unsuccessful,  the  men  who  have 
nobly  striven  and  nobly  failed.  He  alone  is  in  an 
evil  case  who  has  set  his  heart  on  false  or  selfish 
or  trivial  ends.  Whether  he  secure  them  or  not, 
he  is  alike  unsuccessful.  But  he  who  "  loves 
high  "  is  king  in  his  own  right,  though  he  "  live 
low."  His  plans  may  be  abortive,  but  himself  is 
sure.  God  may  overrule  his  desires,  and  thwart 
his  hopes,  and  baffle  his  purposes,  but  all  things 
shall  work  together  for  his  good.  Though  he  fall, 
he  shall  rise  again.  Every  defeat  shall  be  a  vic- 
tory. jEvery  calamity  shall  drop  down  blessing. 
Inward  disappointment  shall  minister  to  enduring 
joy.  From  the  grapes  of  sorrow  he  shall  press 
the  wine  of  life.  ^ 

Theodore  Winthrop  died  in  the  bud  of  his 
promise.  As  I  write  that  name,  hallowed  from 
our  olden  time,  and  now  baptized  anew  for  the 
generations  that  are  to  follow,  comes  back  again 
that  warm,  bright,  midsummer  morning,  freighted 
with  woe,  —  that  dark,  sad  summer  morning  that 
wrenched  him  away  from  sweet  life,  and  left  si- 
lence for  song,  ashes  for  beauty,  —  only  cold,  im- 
passive clay,  where  glowing,  vigorous  vitality  had 
throbbed  and  surged. 

Scarcely  had  his  fame  risen  to  illumine  that 
early  grave,  but,  one  by  one,  from  his  silent  desk 
came  those  brilliant  books,  speaking  to  all  who  had 
ears  to  hear  words  of  grand  resolve  and  faith,  — 
words  of  higher  import  than  their  sound,  —  key- 


404  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

words  to  a  lofty  life  ;  for  all  the  bravery  and 
purity  and  trust  and  truth  and  tenderness  that 
gleam  in  golden  setting  throughout  his  books 
must  have  been  matched  with  bravery  and  purity 
and  trust  and  truth  and  tenderness  in  the  soul 
from  which  they  sprang.  Looking  at  what  might 
have  been  accomplished  with  endowments  so  rare, 
culture  so  careful,  and  patience  so  untiring,  our 
lament  for  the  dead  is  not  untinged  with  bitterness. 
A  mind  so  well  poised,  so  self-confident,  so  eager 
in  its  honorable  desire  for  honorable  fame,  that, 
without  the  stimulus  of  publication,  it  could  pro- 
duce work  after  work,  compact  and  finished,  stud- 
ded with  gems  of  wit  and  wisdom,  white  and 
radiant  with  inward  purity,  —  could  polish  away 
roughness,  and  toil  on  alone,  pursuing  ideal  per- 
fection, and  attaining  a  rare  excellence,  —  surely, 
here  was  promise  of  great  things  for  the  future  ; 
but  it  seemed  otherwise  to  God.  A  poor  little 
drummer-boy,  not  knowing  what  he  did,  sped  a 
bullet  straightway  to  as  brave  a  heart  as  ever  beat, 
and  quenched  a  royal  life. 

I  have  spoken  of  Winthrop,  but  a  thousand 
hearts  will  supply  each  its  own  name  wreathed 
with  cypress  and  laurel.  Were  these  lives  fail- 
ures? Is  not  the  grandeur  of  the  sacrifice  its 
offset  ?  The  choice  of  life  or  death  is  in  no 
man's  hands.  The  choice  is  only  and  occasion- 
ally in  the  manner.  All  must  die.  To  a  few, 
and  only  a  few,  is  granted  the  opportunity  of 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  405 

dying  martyrs.  They  rush  on  to  meet  the  King 
of  Terrors.  They  wrest  the  crown  from  his  awful 
brow,  and  set  it  on  their  own  triumphant.  They 
die,  not  from  inevitable  age  or  irresistible  disease, 
but  in  the  full  flush  of  manhood,  in  the  very  prime 
and  zenith  of  life,  in  that  glorious  transition-hour 
when  hope  is  culminating  in  fruition.  They  die 
of  set  purpose,  with  unflinching  will,  for  God  and 
the  right.  O  thrice  and  four  times  happy  these 
who  bulwark  liberty  with  their  own  breasts  !  No 
common  urn  enshrines  their  sacred  dust.  No  vul- 
gar marble  emblazons  their  hero-deeds.  Every 
place  which  their  life  has  touched  becomes  at  once 
and  forever  holy  ground.  A  nation's  gratitude  em- 
balms their  memory.  In  the  generations  which 
are  to  come,  when  we  are  lying  in  undistinguished 
earth,  mothers  shall  lead  their  little  children  by 
the  hand,  and  say:  "  Here  he  was  born.  This  is 
the  blue  sky  that  bent  over  his  baby  head.  Here 
he  fell,' fighting  for  his  country.  Here  his  ashes 
lie  "  ;  —  and  the  path  thither  shall  be  well  worn, 
and  for  many  and  many  a  year  there  shall  be 
hushed  voices,  and  trembling  lips,  and  tear-dimmed 
eyes.  Everywhere  there  shall  be  death,  —  yours 
and  mine,  —  but  only  here  and  there  immortality, 
' —  and  it  is  his. 

So  the  young  soldier's  passing  away  is  not  un- 
timely. The  longest  life  can  accomplish  only  bene- 
faction and  fame,  and  the  life  that  has  accomplished 
these  has  reached  life's  ultimatum.  It  is  a  fair  and 


406  SUCCESS  IN  LIFE. 

decorous  fate  to  devote  length  of  days  to  humanity, 
but  he  who  gathers  up  his  life  with  all  its  beauty 
and  happiness  and  hope,  and  lays  it  on  the  altar  of 
sacrifice,  —  he  has  done  all.  A  century  of  earthly 
existence  only  scatters  its  benefits  one  by  one. 
The  martyr  binds  his  in  a  single  bundle  of  life, 
and  the  offering  is  complete.  To  all  noble  minds 
fame  is  sweet  and  desirable,  and  threescore  years 
and  ten  are  all  too  few  to  carve  the  monument 
more  durable  than  brass  ;  but  when  such  men  as 
Winthrop  die  such  death  as  his,  we  seize  the  tools 
that  fall  from  their  dying  grasp,  and  complete  the 
fragmentary  structure,  in  shape  more  graceful,  it 
may  be,  in  height  more  majestic,  in  colors  more 
lovely,  than  their  own  hands  could  have  wrought. 
We  attribute  to  them,  not  simply  what  they  did, 
but  all  that  they  might  have  done.  Had  Winthrop 
lived,  failing  health,  adverse  circumstance,  might 
have  blasted  his  promise  in  the  bud  ;  but  now 
nothing  of  that  can  ever  mar  his  fame,  ^e  sur- 
round him  with  his  aspirations.  We  glorify  him 
with  his  possibilities.  He  is  not  only  the  knight 
without  fear  and  without  reproach,  but  the  author 
immortal  as  the  brightest  auspices  could  have  made 
his  strong  and  growing  powers.  A  century  could 
not  have  left  him  greater  than  the  love  and  hope 
and  sorrow  of  his  countrymen,  building  on  the 
little  that  is  known  of  his  short  and  beautiful  life, 
have  made  him. 

O  men  and  women  everywhere  who  are  follow- 


SUCCESS  IN  LIFE.  407 

ing  on  to  know  the  Lord,  faint  yet  pursuing ;  men 
and  women  who  are  troubled,  toiling,  doubting, 
hoping,  watching,  struggling ;  whose  attainments 
"  through  the  long  green  days,  worn  bare  of  grass 
and  sunshine,"  lag  hopelessly  behind  your  aspira- 
tions ;  who  are  haunted  evermore  by  the  ghosts  of 
your  young  purposes ;  who  see  far  off  the  shining 
hills  your  feet  are  fain  to  tread ;  who  work  your 
work  with  dumb,  assiduous  energy,  but  with  per- 
petual protest,  —  I  bid  you  good  luck  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord. 


HAPPIEST  DAYS 

r 


HAPPIEST  DAYS. 


:ONG  ago,  when  you  were  a  little  boy 
or  a  little  girl,  —  perhaps  not  so  very 
long  ago,  either,  —  were  you  never  in- 
terrupted in  your  play  by  being  called 
in  to  have  your  face  washed,  your  hair  combed, 
and  your  soiled  apron  exchanged  for  a  clean  one, 
preparatory  to  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  Smith,  or 
Dr.  Jones,  or  Aunt  Judkins,  your  mother's  early 
friend  ?  And  after  being  ushered  into  that  au- 
gust presence,  and  made  to  face  a  battery  of 
questions  which  were  either  above  or  below  your 
capacity,  and  which  you  consequently  despised 
as  trash  or  resented  as  insult,  did  you  not,  as  you 
were  gleefully  vanishing,  hear  a  soft  sigh  breathed 
out  upon  the  air,  — "  Dear  child,  he  is  seeing 
his  happiest  davs  "  ?  In  the  concrete,  it  was  Mrs. 
Smith  or  Dr.  Jones  speaking  of  you.  But  going 
back  to  general  principles,  it  was  Commonplace- 
dom  expressing  its  opinion  of  childhood. 

There  never  was  a  greater  piece  of  absurdity 


412  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

in  the  world.  I  thought  so  when  I  was  a  child, 
and  now  I  know  it;  and  I  desire  here  to  brand 
it  as  at  once  a  platitude  and  a  falsehood.  How 
the  idea  gained  currency,  that  childhood  is  the 
happiest  period  of  life,  I  cannot  conceive.  How, 
once  started,  it  kept  afloat,  is  equally  incompre- 
hensible. I  should  have  supposed  that  the  ex- 
perience of  every  sane  person  would  have  given 
the  lie  to  it.  I  should  have  supposed  that  every 
soul,  as  it  burst  into  flower,  would  have  hurled 
off  the  imputation.  I  can  only  account  for  it  by 
recurring  to  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague's  sta- 
tistics, and  concluding  that  the  fools  are  three  out 
of  four  in  every  person's  acquaintance. 

I  for  one  lift  up  my  voice  emphatically  against 
the  assertion,  and  do  affirm  that  I  think  child- 
hood is  the  most  undesirable  portion  of  human 
life,  and  I  am  thankful  to  be  well  out  of  it.  I 
look  upon  it  as  no  better  than  a  mitigated  form 
of  slavery.  There  is  not  a  child  in  the  land 
that  can  call  his  soul,  or  his  body,  or  his  jacket 
his  own.  A  little  soft  lump  of  clay  he  comes 
into  the  world,  and  is  moulded  into  a  vessel  of 
honor  or  a  vessel  of  dishonor  long  before  he  can 
put  in  a  word  about  the  matter.  He  has  no  voice 
as  to  his  education  or  his  training,  what  he  shall 
eat,  what  he  shall  drink,  or  wherewithal  he  shall  be 
clothed.  He  has  to  wait  upon  the  wisdom,  the 
whims,  and  often  the  wickedness  of  other  people. 
Imagine,  my  six-foot  friend,  how  you  would  feel, 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  413 

to  be  obliged  to  wear  your  woollen  mittens  when 
you  desire  to  bloom  out  in  straw-colored  kids,  or 
to  be  buttoned  into  youc  black  waistcoat  when 
your  taste  leads  you  to  select  your  white,  or  to  be 
forced  under  your  Kossuth  hat  when  you  had  set 
your  heart  on  your  black  beaver:  yet  this  is 
what  children  are  perpetually  called  on  to  under- 
go. Their  wills  are  just  as  strong  as  ours,  and 
their  tastes  are  stronger,  yet  they  have  to  bend 
the  one  and  sacrifice  the  other ;  and  they  do  it 
under  pressure  of  necessity.  Their  reason  is  not 
convinced;  they  are  forced  to  yield  to  superior 
power ;  and,  of  all  disagreeable  things  in  the 
world,  the  most  disagreeable  is  not  to  have  your 
own  way.  When  you  are  grown  up,  you  wear 
a  print  frock  because  you  cannot  afford  a  silk,  or 
because  a  silk  would  be  out  of  place,  —  you  wear 
India-rubber  overshoes  because  your  polished  pat- 
ent-leather would  be  ruined  by  the  mud ;  and 
your  self-denial  is  amply  compensated  by  the  re- 
flection of  superior  fitness  or  economy.  But  a 
child  has  no  such  reflection  to  console  him.  He 
puts  on  his  battered,  gray  old  shoes  because  you 
make  him ;  he  hangs  up  his  new  trousers  and 
goes  back  into  his  detestable  girl's-frock  because 
he  will  be  punished  if  he  does  not,  and  it  is  in- 
tolerable. 

It  is  of  no  use  to  say  that  this  is  their  disci- 
pline, and  is  all  necessary  to  their  welfare.  It 
is  a  repulsive  condition  of  life  in  which  such 


414  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

degrading  surveillance  is  necessary.  You  may 
affirm  that  an  absolute  despotism  is  the  only  gov- 
ernment fit  for  Dahomey,  and  I  may  not  disallow 
it ;  but  when  you  go  on  and  say  that  Dahomey 
is  the  happiest  country  in  the  world,  why  —  I 
refer  you  to  Dogberry.  Now  the  parents  of  a 
child  are,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  absolute 
despots.  They  may  be  wise,  and  gentle,  and 
doting  despots,  and  the  chain  may  be  satin-smooth 
and  golden-strong ;  but  if  it  be  of  rusty  iron, 
parting  every  now  and  then  and  letting  the  poor 
prisoner  violently  loose,  and  again  suddenly  caught 
hold  of,  bringing  him  up  with  a  jerk,  galling  his 
tender  limbs  and  irretrievably  ruining  his  tem- 
per,—  it  is  all  the  same  ;  there  is- no,  help  for  it. 
And  really,  to  look  around  the  world  and  see 
the  people  that  are  its  fathers  and  mothers  is 
appalling,  —  the  narrow-minded,  prejudiced,  igno- 
rant, ill-tempered,  fretful,  peevish,  passionate, 
careworn,  harassed  men  and  women.  Even  we 
grown  people,  independent  of  them  and  capable 
of  self-defence,  have  as  much  as  we  can  do  to 
keep  the  peace.  Where  is  there  a  city,  or  a 
town,  or  a  village,  in  which  are  no  bickerings, 
no  jealousies,  no  angers,  no  petty  or  sAvollen 
spites  ?  Then  fancy  yourself,  instead  of  the  neigh- 
bor and  occasional  visitor  of  these  poor  human 
beings,  their  children,  subject  to  their  absolute 
control,  with  no  power  of  protest  against  their 
folly,  no  refuge  from  their  injustice,  but  living 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  415 

on  through  thick  and  thin  right  under  their 
guns. 

"  Oh  !  "  but  you  say,  "  this  is  a  very  one-sided 
view.  You  leave  out  entirely  the  natural  tender- 
ness that  comes  in  to  temper  the  matter.  With- 
out that,  a  child's  situation  would  of  course  be 
intolerable  ;  but  the  love  that  is  born  with  him 
makes  all  things  smooth." 

No,  it  does  not  make  all  things  smooth.  It 
does  wonders,  to  be  sure,  but  it  does  not  make 
cross  people  pleasant,  nor  violent  people  calm, 
nor  fretful  people  easy,  nor  obstinate  people  rea- 
sonable, nor  foolish  people  wise,  —  that  is,  it  may 
do  so  spasmodically,  but  it  does  not  hold  them 
to  it  and  keep  them  at  it.  A  great  deal  of  beau- 
tiful moonshine  is  written  about  the  sanctities  of 
home  and  the  sacraments  of  marriage  and  birth. 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  there  is  no  sanctity 
and  no  sacrament.  Moonshine  is  not  nothing. 
It  is  light,  —  real,  honest  light, — just  as  truly 
as  the  sunshine.  -It  is  sunshine  at  second-hand. 
It  illuminates,  but  indistinctly.  It  beautifies,  but 
it  does  not  vivify  or  fructify.  It  comes  indeed 
from  the  sun,  but  in  too  roundabout  a  way  to 
do  the  sun's  work.  So,  if  a  woman  is  pretty 
nearly  sanctified  before  she  is  married,  wifehood 
and  motherhood  may  accomplish  the  work ;  but 
there  is  not  one  man  in  ten  thousand  of  the  writ- 
ers aforesaid  who  would  marry  a  vixen,  trusting 
to  the  sanctifying  influences  of  marriage  to  tone 


416  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

her  down  to  sweetness.  A  thoughtful,  gentle, 
pure,  and  elevated  woman,  who  has  been  accus- 
tomed to  stand  face  to  face  with  the  eternities, 
will  see  in  her  child  a  soul.  If  the  circumstances 
of  her  life  leave  her  leisure  and  adequate  repose, 
that  soul  will  be  to  her  a  solemn  trust,  a  sacred 
charge,  for  which  she  will  give  her  own  soul's 
life  in  pledge.  But  how  many  such  women  do 
you  suppose  there  are  in  your  village  ?  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  even  appear  to  be  depre- 
ciating woman  !  Do  I  not  know  too  well  their 
strength,  and  their  virtue  which  is  their  strength  ? 
But,  stepping  out  of  idyls  and  novels,  and  step- 
ping into  American  kitchens,  is  it  not  true  that 
the  larger  part  of  the  mothers  see  in  their  ba- 
bies, or  act  as  if  they  saw,  only  babies  ?  And 
if  there  are  three  or  four  or  half  a  dozen  of 
them,  as  there  -  generally  are,  so  much  the  more 
do  they  see  babies  whose  bodies  monopolize  the 
mother's  time  to  the  disadvantage  of  their  souls. 
She  loves  them,  and  she  works,  for  them  day  and 
night ;  but  when  they  are.  ranting  and  ramping 
and  quarrelling,  and  torturing  her  over-tense 
nerves,  she  forgets  the  infinite,  and  applies  her- 
self energetically  to  the  finite,  by  sending  Harry 
with  a  round  scolding  into  one  corner,  and  Susy 
into  another,  with  no  light  thrown  upon  the  point 
in  dispute,  no  principle  settled  as  a  guide  in 
future  difficulties,  and  little  discrimination  as  to 
the  relative  guilt  of  the  offenders.  But  there 


HAPPIEST  If  AYS.  417 

is  no  court  of  appeal  before  which  Harry  and 
Susy  can  lay  their  case  in  these  charming  "  hap- 
piest days  " ! 

Then  there  are  parents  who  love  their  children 
like  wild  beasts.  It  is  a  passionate,  blind,  instinc- 
tive, unreasoning  love.  They  have  no  more  intel- 
ligent discernment,  when  an  outside  difficulty 
arises  with  respect  to  their  children,  than  a  she- 
bear.  They  wax  furious  over  the  most  richly 
deserved  punishment,  if  inflicted  by  a  teacher's 
hand ;  they  take  the  part  of  their  child  against 
legal  authority ;  but  observe,  this  does  not  prevent 
them  from  laying  their  own  hands  heavily  on  their 
children.  The  same  obstinate  ignorance  and  nar- 
rowness that  are  exhibited  without  exist  within 
also.  Folly  is  folly,  abroad  or  at  home.  A  man 
does  not  play  the  fool  out-doors  and  act  the  sage 
in  the  house.  When  the  poor  child  becomes  ob- 
noxious, the  same  unreasoning  rage  falls  upon  him. 
The  object  of  a  ferocious  love  is  the  object  of  an 
equally  ferocious  anger.  It  is  only  he  who  loves 
wisely  that  loves  well. 

The  manner  in  which  children's  tastes  are 
disregarded,  their  feelings  ignored,  and  their  in- 
stincts violated,  is  enough  to  disaffect  one  with 
childhood.  They  are  expected  to  kiss  all  flesh 
that  asks  them  to  do  so.  They  are  jerked  up  into 
the  laps  of  people  whom  they  abhor.  They  say, 
"  Yes,  ma'am,"  under  pain  of  bread  and  water 
for  a  week,  when  their  unerring  nature  prompts 

18*  AA 


418  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

them  to  hurl  out  emphatically,  "  No."  They  are 
sent  out  of  the  room  whenever  a  fascinating  bit 
of  scandal  is  to  be  rehearsed,  packed  off  to  bed 
just  as  everybody  is  settled  down  for  a  charming 
evening,  bothered  about  their  lessons  when  their 
play  is  but  fairly  under  way,  and  hedged  and 
hampered  on  every  side.  It  is  true,  that  all  this 
may  be  for  their  good,  but  what  of  that  ?  So 
everything  is  for  the  good  of  grown-up  people  ; 
but  does  that  make  us  contented  ?  It  is  doubtless 
for  our  good  in  the  long  run  that  we  lose  our  pock- 
et-books, and  break  our  arms,  and  catch  a  fever, 
and  have  our  brothers  defraud  a  bank,  and  our 
houses  burn  down,  and  people  steal  our  umbrellas, 
and  borrow  our  books  and  never  return  them. 
In  fact,  we  know  that  upon  certain  conditions  all 
things  work  together  for  our  good,  but,  notwith- 
standing, we  find  some  things  very  unpleasant ; 
and  we  may  talk  to  our  children  of  discipline 
and  health  by  the  hour  together,  and  it  will 
never  be  anything  but  an  intolerable  nuisance 
to  them  to  be  swooped  off  to  bed  by  a  dingy  old 
nurse  just  as  the  people  are  beginning  to  come, 
and  shining  silk,  and  floating  lace,  and  odorous, 
faint  flowers  are  taking  their  ecstatic  young  souls 
back  into  the  golden  days  of  the  good  Haroun  al 
Raschid. 

Even  in  this  very  point  lies  one  of  the  miseries 
of  childhood,  that  no  philosophy  comes  to  temper 
their  sorrow.  We  do  not  know  why  we  are 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  419 

troubled,  but  we  know  there  is  some  good,  grand 
reason  for  it.  The  poor  little  children  do  not 
know  even  that.  They  find  trouble  utterly  in- 
consequent and  unreasonable.  The  problem  of 
evil  is  to  them  absolutely  incapable  of  solution. 
We  know  that  beyond  our  horizon  stretches  the 
infinite  universe.  We  grasp  only  one  link  of  a 
chain  whose  beginning  and  end  is  eternity.  So 
we  readily  adjust  ourselves  to  mystery,  and  are 
content.  We  apply  to  everything  inexplicable  the 
test  of  partial  view,  and  maintain  our  tranquillity. 
We  fall  into  the  ranks,  and  march  on,  acquiescent, 
if  not  jubilant.  We  hear  the  roar  of  cannon  and 
the  rattle  of  musketry.  Stalwart  forms  fall  by 
our  side,  and  brawny  arms  are  stricken.  Our 
own  hopes  bite  the  dust,  our  own  -hearts  bury 
their  dead  ;  but  we  know  that  law  is  inexorable. 
Effect  must  follow  cause,  and  there  is  no  happen- 
ing without  causation.  So,  knowing  ourselves  to 
be  only  one  small  brigade  of  the  army  of  the  Lord, 
we  defile  through  the  passes  of  this  narrow  world, 
bearing  aloft  on  our  banner,  and  writing  ever  on 
our  hearts,  the  divine  consolation,  "  What  thou 
knowest  not  now  thou  shalt  know  hereafter." 
This  is  an  unspeakable  tranquillizer  and  comforter, 
of  which,  woe  is  me  !  the  little  ones  know  nothing. 
They  have  no  underlying  generalities  on  which  to 
stand.  Law  and  logic  and  eternity  are  nothing 
to  them.  They  only  know  that  it  rains,  and  they 
will  have  to  wait  another  week  before  they  go  a- 


420  HAPPIEST  DAYS, 

fishing  ;  and  why  could  n't  it  have  rained  Friday 
just  as  well  as  Saturday  ?  and  it  always  does  rain 
or  something  when  I  want  to  go  anywhere,  —  so, 
there  !  And  the  frantic  flood  of  tears  comes  up 
from  outraged  justice  as  well  as  from  disappointed 
hope.  It  is  the  flimsiest  of  all  possible  arguments 
to  say  that  their  sorrows  are  trifling,  to  talk  about 
their  little  cares  and  trials.  These  little  things  are 
great  to  little  men  and  women.  A  pine  bucket 
fuh1  is  just  as  full  as  a  hogshead.  The  ant  has  to 
tug  just  as  hard  to  carry  a  grain  of  corn  as  the 
Irishman  does  to  carry  a  hod  of  bricks.  You  can 
see  the  bran  running  out  of  Fanny's  doll's  arm, 
or  the  cat  putting  her  foot  through  Tom's  new 
kite,  without  losing  your  equanimity;  but  their 
hearts  feel  the  pang  of  hopeless  sorrow,  or  foiled 
ambition,  or  bitter  disappointment,  —  and  the  emo- 
tion is  the  thing  in  question,  not  the  event  that 
caused  it. 

It  is  an  additional  disadvantage  to  children  in 
their  troubles,  that  they  can  never  estimate  the 
relations  of  things.  They  have  no  perspective. 
All  things  are  at  equal  distances,  from  the  point 
of  sight.  Life  presents  to  them  neither  fore- 
ground nor  background,  principal  figure  nor  sub- 
ordinates, but  only  a  plain  spread  of  canvas,  on 
which  one  thing  stands  out  just  as  big  and  just  as 
black  as  another.  You  classify  your  desagr^ments. 
This  is  a  mere  temporary  annoyance,  and  receives 
but  a  passing  thought.  This  is  a  life-long  sor- 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  421 

"row,  but  it  is  superficial ;  it  will  drop  off  from  you 
at  the  grave,  be  folded  away  with  your  cerements, 
and  leave  no  scar  on  your  spirit.  This  thrusts  its 
lancet  into  the  secret  place  where  your  soul  abid- 
eth,  but  you  know  that  it  tortures  only  to  heal ;  it 
is  recuperative,  not  destructive,  and  you  will  rise 
from  it  to  newness  of  life.  But  when  little  ones 
see  a  ripple  in  the  current  of  their  joy,  they  do 
not  know,  they  cannot  tell,  that  it  is  only  a  pebble 
breaking  softly  in  upon  the  summer  flow,  to  toss  a 
cool  spray  up  into  the  white  bosom  of  the  lilies,  or 
to  bathe  the  bending  violets  upon  the  green  and 
grateful  bank.  It  seems  to  them  as  if  the  whole 
strong  tide  is  thrust  fiercely  and  violently  back, 
and  hurled  into  a  new  channel,  chasmed  in  the 
rqugh,  rent  granite.  It  is  impossible  to  calculate 
the  waste  of  grief  and  pathos  which  this  incapacity 
causes.  Fanny's  doll  aforesaid  is  left  too  near  the 
fire,  and  waxy  tears  roll  down  her  ruddy  cheeks, 
to  the  utter  ruin  of  her  pretty  face  and  her  gay 
frock ;  and  anon  poor  Fanny  breaks  her  little 
heart  in  moans  and  sobs  arid  sore  lamentations. 
It  is  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children.  I  went  on 
a  tramp  one  May  morning  to  buy  a  tissue-paper 
wreath  of  flowers  for  a  little  girl  to  wear  to  a  May- 
party,  where  all  the  other  little  girls  were  ex- 
pected to  appear  similarly  crowned.  After  a  long 
and  weary  search,  I  was  forced  to  return  without 
it.  Scarcely  had  I  pulled  the  bell,  when  I  heard 
the  quick  pattering  of  little  feet  in  the  entry. 


422  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

Never  in  all  my  life  shall  I  lose  the  memory  of 
those  wistful  eyes,  that  did  not  so  much  as  look  up 
to  my  face,  but'  levelled  themselves  to  my  hand, 
and  filmed  with  disappointment  to  find  it  empty. 
I  could  see  that  the  wreath  was  a  very  insignifi- 
cant matter.  I  knew  that  every  little  beggar  in 
the  street  had  garlanded  herself  with  sixpenny 
roses,  and  I  should  have  preferred  that  my  darling 
should  be  content  with  her  own  silky  brown  hair ; 
but  my  taste  availed  her  nothing,  and  the  iron 
entered  into  her  soul.  Once  a  little  boy,  who 
could  just  stretch  himself  up  as  high  as  his  papa's 
knee,  climbed  surreptitiously  into  the  store-closet 
and  upset  the  milk-pitcher.  Terrified,  he  crept 
behind  the  flour-barrel,  and  there  Nemesis  found 
him,  and  he  looked  so  charming  and  so  guilty 
that  two  or  three  others  were  called  to  come  and 
enjoy  the  sight.  But  he,  unhappy  midget,  did 
not  know  that  he  looked  charming ;  he  did  not 
know  that  his  guilty  consciousness  only  made  him 
the  more  interesting ;  he  did  not  know  that  he 
seemed  an  epitome  of  humanity,  a  Liliputian  min- 
iature of  the  great  world  ;  and  his  large,  blue, 
solemn  eyes  were  filled  with  remorse.  As  he 
stood  there  silent,  with  his  grave,  utterly  mourn- 
ful face,  he  had  robbed  a  bank,  he  had  forged  a 
note,  he  had  committed  a  murder,  he  was  guilty 
of  treason.  All  the  horror  of  conscience,  all  the 
shame  of  discovery,  all  the  unavailing  regret  of 
a  detected,  atrocious,  but  not  utterly  hardened 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  423 

pirate,  tore  his  poor  little  innocent  heart.  Yet 
children  are  seeing  their  happiest  days  ! 

These  people  —  the  aforesaid  three  fourths  of 
our  acquaintance  —  lay  great  stress  on  the  fact 
that  children  are  free  from  care,  as  if  freedom 
from  care  were  one  of  the  beatitudes  of  Paradise  ; 
but  I  should  like  to  know  if  freedom  from  care  is 
any  blessing  to  beings  who  don't  know  what  care 
is.  You  who  are  careful  and  troubled  about  many 
things  may  dwell  on  it  with  great  satisfaction,  but 
children  don't  find  it  delightful  by  any  means. 
On  the  contrary,  they  are  never  so  happy  as  when 
they  can  get  a  little  care,  or  cheat  themselves  into 
the  belief  that  they  have  it.  You  can  make  them 
proud  for  a  day  by  sending  them  on  some  respon- 
sible errand.  If  you  will  not  place  care  upon 
them,  they  will  make  it  for  themselves.  You  shall 
see  a  whole  family  of  dolls  stricken  down  simul- 
taneously with  malignant  measles,  or  a  restive 
horse  evoked  from  a  passive  parlor-chair.  They 
are  a  great  deal  more  eager  to  assume  care,  than 
you  are  to  throw  it  off.  To  be  sure,  they  may  be 
quite  as  eager  to  be  rid  of  it  after  a  while ;  but 
while  this  does  not  prove  that  care  is  delightful,  it 
certainly  does  prove  that  freedom  from  care  is 
not. 

Now  I  should  like,  Herr  Narr,  to  have  you  look 
at  the  other  side  for  a  moment :  for  there  is  a  pos- 
itive and  a  negative  pole.  Children  not  only  have 
their  full  share  of  misery,  but  they  do  not  have 


424  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

their  full  share  of  happiness  ;  at  least,  they  miss 
many  sources  of  happiness  to  which  we  have  ac- 
cess. They  have  no  consciousness.  They  has^e 
sensations,  but  no  perceptions.  We  look  long- 
ingly upon  them,  because  they  are  so  graceful,  and 
simple,  and  natural,  and  frank,  and  artless  ;  but 
though  this  may  make  us  happy,  it  does  not  make 
them  happy,  because  they  don't  know  anything 
about  it.  It  never  occurs  to  them  that  they  are 
graceful.  No  child  is  ever  artless  to  himself.  The 
only  difference  he  sees  between  you  and  himself 
is,  that  you  are  grown-up  and  he  is  little.  Some- 
times I  think  he  does  have  a  dim  perception  that 
when  he  is  ill,  it  is  because  he  has  eaten  too 
much,  and  he  must  take  medicine,  and  feed  on 
heartless  dry  toast,  while,  when  you  are  ill,  you 
have  the  dyspepsia,  and  go  to  Europe.  But  the 
beauty  and  sweetness  of  children  are  entirely 
wasted  on  themselves,  and  their  frankness  is  a 
source  of  "infinite  annoyance  to  each  other.  A 
man  enjoys  himself.  If  he  is  handsome,  or  wise, 
or  witty,  he  generally  knows  it,  and  takes  great 
satisfaction  in  it ;  but  a  child  does  not.  He  loses 
half  his  happiness  because  he  does  not  know  that 
he  is  happy.  If  he  ever  has  any  consciousness,  it 
is  an  isolated,  momentary  thing,  with  no  relation 
to  anything  antecedent  or  subsequent.  It  lays 
hold  on  nothing.  Not  only  have  they  no  percep- 
tion of  themselves,  but  they  have  no  perception 
of  anything.  They  never  recognize  an  exigency. 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  425 

They  do  not  salute  greatness.  Has  not  the  Auto- 
crat told  us  of  some  lady  who  remembered  a  cer- 
tain momentous  event  in  our  Revolutionary  War, 
and  remembered  it  only  by  and  because  of  the 
regret  she  experienced  at  leaving  her  doll  behind 
when  her  family  was  forced  to  fly  from  home  ? 
What  humiliation  is  this  !  What  an  utter  failure 
to  appreciate  the  issues  of  life !  For  her  there 
was  no  revolution,  no  upheaval  of  world-old  theo- 
ries, no  struggle  for  freedom,  no  great  combat  of 
the  heroisms.  All  the  passion  and  pain,  the  mor- 
tal throes  of  error,  the  glory  of  sacrifice,  the  vic- 
tory of  an  idea,  the  triumph  of  right,  the  dawn 
of  a  new  era,  —  all,  all  were  hidden  from  her  be- 
hind a  lump  of  wax.  And  what  was  true  of  her 
is  true  of  all  her  class.  Having  eyes,  they  see 
not ;  with  their  ears  they  do  not  hear.  The  din 
of  arms,  the  waving  of  banners,  the  gleam  of 
swords,  fearful  sights  and  great  signs  in  the  heav- 
ens, or  the  still,  small  voice  that  thrills  when  wind 
and  fire  and  earthquake  have  swept  by,  may  pro- 
claim the  coming  of  the  Lord,  and  they  stumble 
along,  munching  bread-and-butter.  Out  in  the 
solitudes  Nature  speaks  with  her  many-toned 
voices,  and  they  are  deaf.  They  have  a  blind 
sensational  enjoyment,  such  as  a  squirrel  or'  a 
chicken  may  have,  but  they  can  in  no  wise  inter- 
pret the  Mighty  Mother,  nor  even  hear  herwords. 
The  ocean  moans  his  secret  to  unheeding  ears. 
The  agony  of  the  -underworld  finds  no  speech  in 


426  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

the  mountain-peaks,  bare  and  grand.  The  old 
oaks  stretch  out  their  arms  in  vain.  Grove  whis- 
pers to  grove,  and  the  robin  stops  to  listen,  but 
the  child  plays  on.  He  bruises  the  happy  butter- 
cups, he  crushes  the  quivering  anemone,  and  his 
cruel  fingers  are  stained  with  the  harebell's  purple 
blood.  Rippling  waterfall  and  rolling  river,  the 
majesty  of  sombre  woods,  the  wild  waste  of  wil- 
derness, the  fairy  spirits  of  sunshine,  the  sparkling 
wine  of  June,  and  the  golden  languor  of  October, 
the  child  passes  by,  and  a  dipper  of  blackberries, 
or  a  pocketful  of  chestnuts,  fills  and  satisfies  his 
horrible  little  soul.  And  in  face  of  all  this  people 
say,  —  there  are  people  who  dare  to  say,  —  that 
childhood's  are  the  "happiest  days." 

I  may  have  been  peculiarly  unfortunate  in  my 
surroundings,  but  the  children  of  poetry  and  nov- 
els were  very  infrequent  in  my  day.  The  inno- 
cent cherubs  never  studied  in  my  school-house, 
nor  played  puss-in-the-corner  in  our  back-yard. 
Childhood,  when  I  was  young,  had  rosy  cheeks 
and  bright  eyes,  as  I  remember,  but  it  was  also 
extremely  given  to  quarrelling.  It  used  frequent- 
ly to  "get  mad."  It  made  nothing  of  twitching 
away  books  and  balls.  It  often  pouted.  Some- 
times it  would  bite.  If  it  wore  a  fine  frock,  it 
would  strut.  It  told  lies,  —  "  whoppers  "  at  that. 
It  took  the  larger  half  of  the  apple.  It  was 
not,  as  a  general  thing,  magnanimous,  but  "  aggra- 
vating." It  may  have  been  fun  to  you  who 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  427 

looked  on,  but  it  was  death  to  us  who  were  in 
the  midst. 

This  whole  way  of  viewing  childhood,  thfs  re- 
gretful retrospect  of  its  vanished  joys,  this  infat- 
uated apotheosis  of  doughiness  and  rank  unfinish, 
this  fearful  looking-for  of  dread  old  age,  is  low, 
gross,  material,  utterly  unworthy  of  a  sublime 
manhood,  utterly  false  to  Christian  truth.  Child- 
hood is  pre-eminently  the  animal  stage  of  ex- 
istence. The  baby  is  a  beast,  —  a  very  soft, 
tender,  caressive  beast,  —  a  beast  full  of  promise, 
—  a  beast  with  the  germ  of  an  angel,  —  but  a 
beast  still.  A  week-old  baby  gives  no  more  sign 
of  intelligence,  of  love,  or  ambition,  or  hope,  or 
fear,  or  passion,  or  purpose,  than  a  week-old 
monkey,  and  is  not  half  so  frisky  and  funny. 
In  fact,  it  is  a  puling,  scowling,  wretched,  dismal, 
desperate-looking  animal.  It  is  only  as  it  grows 
old  that  the  beast  gives  way  and  the  angel-wings 
bud,  and  all  along  through  infancy  and  childhood 
the  beast  gives  way  and  gives  way  and  the  angel- 
wings  bud  and  bud;  and  yet  we  entertain  our 
angel  so  unawares,  that  we  look  back  regretfully 
to  the  time  when  the  angel  was  in  abeyance  and 
the  beast  raved  regnant. 

The  only  advantage  which  childhood  has  over 
manhood  is  the  absence  of  foreboding,  and  this 
indeed  is  much.  A  large  part  of  our  suffering  is 
anticipatory,  much  of  which  children  are  spared. 
The  present  happiness  is  clouded  for  them  by  no 


428  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

shadowy  possibility ;  but  for  this  small  indemnity 
shall  we  offset  the  glory  of  our  manly  years  ? 
Because  their  narrowness  cannot  take  in  the  con- 
tingencies that  threaten  peace,  are  they  blessed 
above  all  others?  Does  not  the  same  narrow- 
ness cut  them  off  from  the  bright  certainty  that 
underlies  all  doubts  and  fears  ?  If  ignorance  is 
bliss,  man  stands  at  the  summit  of  mortal  misery, 
and  the  scale  of  happiness  is  a  descending  one. 
We  must  go  down  into  the  ocean-depths,  where, 
for  the  scintillant  soul,  a  dim,  twilight  instinct 
lights  up  gelatinous  lives.  If  childhood  is  indeed 
the  happiest  period,  then  the  mysterious  God- 
breathed  breath  was  no  boon,  and  the  Deity  is 
cruel.  Immortality  were  well  exchanged  for  the 
blank  of  annihilation. 

We  hear  of  the  dissipated  illusions  of  youth, 
the  paling  of  bright,  young  dreams.  Life,  it  is 
said,  turns  out  to  be  different  from  what  was  pic- 
tured. The  rosy-hued  morning  fades  away  into 
the  gray  and  livid  evening,  the  black  and  ghastly 
night.  In  especial  cases  it  may  be  so,  but  I  do 
not  believe  it  is  the  general  experience.  It  surely 
need  not  be.  It  should  not  be.  I  have  found 
things  a  great  deal  better  than  I  expected.  I 
am  but  one  ;  but  with  all  my  oneness,  with  all 
that  there  is  of  me,  I  protest  against  such  gener- 
alities. I  think  they  are  slanderous  of  Him  who 
ordained  life,  its  processes  and  its  vicissitudes.  He 
never  made  our  dreams  to  outstrip  our  realiza- 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  429 

tions.  Every  conception,  brain-born,  has  its  exe- 
cution, hand-wrought.  Life  is  not  a  paltry  tin 
cup  which  the  child  drains  dry,  leaving  the  man 
to  go  weary  and  hopeless,  quaffing  at  it  in  vain 
with  black,  parched  lips.  It  is  a  fountain  ever 
springing.  It  is  a  great  deep,  which  the  wisest 
has  never  bounded,  the  grandest  never  fathomed. 

It  is  not  only  idle,  but  stupid,  to  lament  the  de- 
parture of  childhood's  joys.  It  is  as  if  something 
precious  and  valued  had  been  forcibly  torn  from 
us,  and  we  go  sorrowing  for  lost  treasure.  But 
these  things  fall  off  from  us  naturally ;  we  do  not 
give  them  up.  We  are  never  called  upon  to  give 
them  up.  There  is  no  pang,  no  sorrow,  no 
wrenching  away  of  a  part  of  our  lives.  The  baby 
lies  in  his  cradle  and  plays  with  his  fingers  and 
toes.  There  comes  an  hour  when  his  fingers  and 
toes  no  longer  afford  him  amusement.  He  has 
attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  rattle,  a  whip,  a  ball. 
Has  he  suffered  a  loss  ?  Has  he  not  rather  made 
a  great  gain  ?  When  he  passed  from  his  toes  to 
his  toys,  did  he  do  it  mournfully  ?  Does  he  look 
at  his  little  feet  and  hands  with  a  sigh  for  the  joys 
that  once  loitered  there,  but  are  now  forever  gone  ? 
Does  he  not  rather  feel  a  little  ashamed,  when  you 
remind  him  of  those  days  ?  Does  he  not  feel  that 
it  trenches  somewhat  on  his  dignity?  Yet  the 
regret  of  maturity  for  its  past  joys  amounts  to 
nothing  less  than  this.  Such  regret  is  regret  that 
we  cannot  lie  in  the  sunshine  and  play  with  our 


430  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

toes, — that  we  are  no  longer  but  one  remove,  or 
but  few  removes,  from  the  idiot.  Away  with  such 
folly !  Every  season  of  life  has  its  distinctive  and 
appropriate  enjoyments,  which  bud  and  blossom 
and  ripen  and  fall  off  as  the  season  glides  on  to 
its  close,  to  be  succeeded  by  others  better  and 
brighter.  There  is  no  consciousness  of  loss,  for 
there  is  no.  loss.  There  is  only  a  growing  up,  and 
out  of,  and  beyond. 

Life  does  turn  out  differently  from  what  was 
anticipated.  It  is  an  infinitely  higher  and  holier 
and  happier  thing  than  our  childhood  fancied.  The 
world  that  lay  before  us  then  was  but  a  tinsel  toy 
to  the  world  which  our  firm  feet  tread.  We  have 
entered  into  the  undiscovered  land.  We  have 
explored  its  ways  of  pleasantness,  its  depths  of 
dole,  its  mountains  of  difficulty,  its  vallevs  of  de- 
light, and,  behold !  it  is  very  good.  Storms  have 
swept  fiercely,  but  they  swept  to  purify.  We 
have  heard  in  its  thunders  the  Voice  that  woke 
once  the  echoes  of  the  Garden.  Its  lightnings 
have  riven  a  path  for  the  Angel  of  Peace. 

Manhood  discovers  what  childhood  can  never 
divine,  —  that  the  sorrows  of  life  are  superficial, 
and  the  happiness  of  life  structural  ;  and  this 
knowledge  alone  is  enough  to  give  a  peace  which 
passeth  understanding. 

Yes,  the  dreams  of  youth  were  dreams,  but 
the  waking  was  more  glorious  than  they.  They 
were  only  dreams,  —  fitful,  flitting,  fragmentary 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  431 

visions  of  the  coming  day.  The  shallow  joys, 
the  capricious  pleasures,  the  wavering  sunshine 
of  infancy,  have  _ deepened  into  virtues,  graces, 
heroisms.  We  have  the  bold  outlook  of  calm, 
self-confident  courage,  the  strong  fortitude  of 
endurance,  the  imperial  magnificence  of  self- 
denial.  Our  hearts  expand  with  benevolence, 
our  lives  broaden  with  beneficence.  We  cease 
our  perpetual  skirmishing  at  the  outposts,  and 
go  inward  to  the  citadel.  Down  into  the  secret 
places  of  life  we  descend.  Down  among  the 
beautiful  ones,  in  the  cool  and  quiet  shadows,  on 
the  sunny  summer  levels,  we  walk  securely,  and 
the  hidden  fountains  are  unsealed. 

For  those  people  who  do  nothing,  for  those  to 
whom  Christianity  brings  no  revelation,  for  those 
who  see  no  eternity  in  time,  no  infinity  in  life, 
for  those  to  whom  opportunity  is  but  the  hand- 
maid of  selfishness,  to  whom  smallness  is  informed 
by  no  greatness,  for  whom  the  lowly  is  never 
lifted  up  by  indwelling  love  to  the  heights  of  di- 
vine performance,  —  for  them,  indeed,  each  hur- 
rying year  may  well  be  a  King  of  Terrors.  To 
pass  out  from  the  flooding  light  of  the  morning,  to 
feel  all  the  dewiness  drunk  up  by  the  thirsty,  in- 
satiate sun,  to  see  the  shadows  slowly  and  swiftly 
gathering,  and  no  starlight  to  break  the  gloom, 
and  no  home  beyond  the  gloom  for  the  'unhoused, 
startled,  shivering  soul,  —  ah !  this  indeed  is 
terrible.  The  "confusions  of  a  wasted  youth" 


432  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

strew  thick  confusions  of  a  dreary  age.  Where 
youth  garners  up  only  such  power  as  beauty  or 
strength  may  bestow,  where  youth  is  but  the 
revel  of  physical  or  frivolous  delight,  where  youth 
aspires  only  with  paltry  and  ignoble  ambitions, 
where  youth  presses  the  wine  of  life  into  the 
cnp  of  variety,  there  indeed  Age  comes,  a  thrice 
unwelcome  guest.  Put  him  off.  Thrust  him 
back.  Weep  for  the  early  days :  you  have  found 
no  happiness  to  replace  their  joys.  Mourn  for 
the  trifles  that  were  innocent,  since  the  trifles 
of  your  manhood  are  heavy  with  guilt.  Fight 
to  the  last.  Retreat  inch  by  inch.  With  every 
step  you  lose.  Every  day  robs  you  of  treasure. 
Every  hour  passes  you  over  to  insignificance ; 
and  at  the  end  stands  Death.  The  tare  and  deso- 
late decline  drops  suddenly  into  the  hopeless, 
dreadful  grave,  the  black  and  yawning  grave, 
the  foul  and  loathsome  grave. 

But  why  those  who  are  Christians  and  not  Pa- 
gans, who  believe  that  death  is  not  an  eternal  sleep, 
who  wrest  from  life  its  uses  and  gather  from  life  its 
beauty,  —  why  they  should  dally  along  the  road, 
and  cling  frantically  to  the  old  landmarks,  and 
shrink  fearfully  from  the  approaching  future,  I 
cannot  tell.  You  are  getting  into  years.  True. 
But  you  are  getting  out  again.  The  bowed  frame, 
the  tottering  step,  the  unsteady  hand,  the  failing 
eye,  the  heavy  ear,  the  tremulous  voice,  they  will 
all  be  yours.  The  grasshopper ^will  become  a  bui 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  433 

den,  and  desire  shall  fail.  The  fire  shall  be  smoth- 
ered in  your  heart,  and  for  passion  you  shall  have 
only  peace.  This  is  not  pleasant.  It  is  never 
pleasant  to  feel  the  inevitable  passing  away  of 
priceless  possessions.  If  this  were  to  be  the  cul- 
mination of  your  fate,  you  might  indeed  take  up 
the  wail  for  your  lost  youth.  But  this  is  only  for 
a  moment.  The  infirmities  of  age  come  gradually. 
Gently  we  are  led  down  into  the  valley.  Slowly, 
and  not  without  a  soft  loveliness,  the  shadows 
lengthen.  At  the  worst  these  weaknesses  are 
but  the  stepping-stones  in  the  river,  passing  over 
which  you  shall  come  to  immortal  vigor,  immortal 
fire,  immortal  beauty.  All  along  the  western  sky 
flames  and  glows  the  auroral  light  of  another  life. 
The  banner  of  victory  waves  right  over  your  dun- 
geon of  defeat.  By  the  golden  gateway  of  the 
sunsetting, 

"  Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  who  walked  the  waves," 

you  shall  pass  into  the  "  cloud-land,  gorgeous 
land,"  whose  splendor  is  unveiled  only  to  the 
eyes  of  the  Immortals.  Would  you  loiter  to 
your  inheritance? 

You  are  "  getting  into  years."  Yes,  but  the 
years  are  getting  into  you,  —  the  ripe,  rich  years, 
the  genial,  mellow  years,  the  lusty,  luscious  years. 
One  by  one  the  crudities  of  your  youth  are  falling 
off  from  you,  —  the  vanity,  the  egotism,  the  isola- 
tion, the  bewilderment,  the  uncertainty.  Nearer 

19  B  B 


434  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

and  nearer  you  are  approaching  yourself.  You 
are  consolidating  your  forces.  You  are  becoming 
master  of  the  situation.  Every  wrong  road  into 
which  you  have  wandered  has  brought  you,  by 
the  knowledge  of  that  mistake,  so  much  closer  to 
the  truth.  You  no  longer  draw  your  bow  at  a 
venture,  but  shoot  straight  at  the  mark.  Your 
purposes  concentrate,  and  your  path  is  cleared. 
On  the  ruins  of  shattered  plans  you  find  your  van- 
tage-ground. Your  broken  'hopes,  your  thwarted 
schemes,  your  defeated  aspirations,  become  a  staff 
of  strength  writh  which  you  mount  to  sublimer 
heights.  With  self-possession  and  self-command 
return  the  possession  and  the  command  of  all 
things.  The  title-deed  of  creation, 'forfeited,  is 
reclaimed.  The  king  has  come  to  his  own  again. 
Earth  and  sea  and  sky  pour  out  their  largess  of 
love.  All  the  past  crowds  down  to  lay  its  treasures 
at  your  feet.  Patriotism  stands  once  more  in  the 
breach  at  Thermopyla?,  —  bears  down  the  serried 
hosts  of  Bannockburn,  —  lays  its  calm  hand  in 
the  fire,  still,  as  if  it  felt  the  pressure  of  a  mother's 
lips,  —  gathers  to  its  heart  the  points  of  opposing 
spears,  to  make  a  way  for  the  avenging  feet  behind. 
All  that  the  ages  have  of  greatness  and  glory  your 
hand  may  pluck,  and  every  year  adds  to  the  purple 
vintage.  Every  year  comes  laden  with  the  riches 
of  the  lives  that  were  lavished  on  it.  Every  year 
brings  to  you  softness  and  sweetness  and  strength. 
Every  year  evokes  order  from  confusion,  till  all 


HAPPIEST  DAYS.  435 

things  find  scope  and  adjustment.  Every  year 
sweeps  a  broader  circle  for  your  horizon,  grooves 
a  deeper  channel  for  your  experience.  Through 
sun  and  shade  and  shower  you  ripen  to  a  large 
and  liberal  life. 

Yours  is  the  deep  joy,  the  unspoken  fervor,  the 
sacred  fury  of  the  fight.  Yours  is  the  power  to 
redress  wrong,  to  defend  the  weak,  to  succor  the 
needy,  to  relieve  the  suffering,  to  confound  the 
oppressor.  While  vigor  leaps  in  great  tidal  pulses 
along  your  veins,  you  stand  in  the  thickest  of  the 
fray,  and  broadsword  and  battle-axe  come  crashing 
down  through  helmet  and  visor.  When  force  has 
spent  itself,  you  withdraw  from  the  field,  your 
weapons  pass  into  younger  hands,  you  rest  under 
your  laurels,  and  your  works  do  follow  you.  Your 
badges  are  the  scars  of  your  honorable  wounds. 
Your  life  finds  its  vindication  in  the  deeds  which 
you  have  wrought.  The  possible  to-morrow  has 
become  the  secure  yesterday.  Above  the  tumult 
and  the  turbulence,  above  the  struggle  and  the 
doubt,  you  sit  in  the  serene  evening,  awaiting 
your  promotion. 

Come,  then,  O  dreaded  years !  Your  brows  are 
awful,  but  not  with  frowns.  I  hear  your  resonant 
tramp  far  off,  but  it  is  sweet  as  the  May-maidens' 
song.  In  your  grave  prophetic  eyes  I  read  a 
golden  promise.  I  know  that  you  bear  in  your 
bosom  the  fulness  of  my  life.  Veiled  monarchs 
of  the  future,  shining  dim  and  beautiful,  you  shall 


436  HAPPIEST  DAYS. 

become  my  vassals,  swift-footed  to  bear  my  mes- 
sages, swift-handed  to  work  my  will.  Nourished 
by  the  nectar  which  you  will  pour  in  passing  from 
your  crystal  cups,  Death  shall  have  no  dominion 
over  me,  but  I  shall  go  on  from  strength  to  strength 
and  from  glory  to  glory. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  Si  Co. 


436 


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